
* $ 




- v* o' 


P* \» r a * • O 



^ 6 i 



° «5 ^ 

• «> O 

o.o’ y o 

& <o Y i \^LJ? ** n 

*$» A v * M A° n 

> ® fV\\V2S\///L o 

“WW‘ <y>^ 

* 'V ° V Jy\F * <? > • 

v <\ '**.* <6^ \b *< 

■** ..-.‘J^ ** c° ..+’ 

*■ W . 

fl 4o. > w ° ,0 v*. 

_ ywov ^ (v^ ^ a- > ^ 

\ -»?.•*£:* ^ V s ,.*., -V .o* 

«, ►-«.-» • •*>. .A i’-‘^ * 

- ■*>* ^YV 

vr' , 'V v 

* c$ - 

* •Op v ^a 0 

•V ** v 



^ <*& 



<5 

<V^> 

v # *+ ** 

* - « 1 ' 8 * . Q^ o 0 " ° * ^O . i ' • „ "<S> p^ 

^ ,y + ^rflTTpzP ^ v o j** s^smZ ■* v '•^ 








; ^ 

« * p 

0 N ° ° ^ O * • , 1 * A V 

-V ^ V * Y * O - 0 V «. S 

'. •#■> A -P, ->■>■ * 


*^0* 


** A* 
^V 


o « A 



oK 


*° ^ * 



* y y 

* (f <p * 

I ' 0 N 0 

TT G • ^ O 

^ 0^ ; 

o. 

/ o 

0 <P ^ S ' 1 ' f 

f y * °- c\ ^9 6 5 * * 

► . ^ « *p A "^ t 

WWgr^ if > " 

' o o S % 4^V <Tj. ' O O A 

A ^ . <• ' 9 >» ^ 



° -<{5 ^ 

' lv V 
0 * ^ 


^0« 


/°- 
* ^ 



Vv 



v 


a ° 



„ : ^ s s » - 

* v 

- * V -»■»» 

A ' ’ " A° K/ ' • • s 

y£ > VJ G ° ° * O 

Vy Vj • <r*5^V m* O 

* A o< .' * 

^ o o -w-f;* o _«. 

A ^ 

v .V 5^', A v AwW*. ^ V f ’ " 



* 

* V O 

^ A ** 

n] * &?/Y?7s*? * r ^y 0 • 

^ yA <1 * 

‘ ^ cr 


^ ^ * 
v* , V <» 


< 1*5 

4 A V. * 




» \y- . A 




A*^ . <■ ' • „ *<$> 

J ^ y>W -r *£ 

* < N * jQ&fi[ //^2_ ,r y k 

* ^ K ^W/yP * *P> « 

: . V . ^ o x 

» • 1 , 07 * * * < o 

0 0 V '* ?A A °c 

0 % * VI' -v ^ V * Y • ° x- c\ 

y ^ iSfc^ vftw*. <* JV >* V <? v£> 


0 / *» 



* 

(3 

- v^ 

\> ^ ° 

/ V o. 

* A <* *o .\* 

A*^ o •■ ' • „ 

<T **(022$: 

' m ^\ r *+# 

' $ ^ 
° 4 J> 

* ° W 0 ° *V 

aO s*V% *> \> ^*o. 

* V ^ A 

A V ♦ -f 

Vv 


"• ^ A^ /ja¥^ ^ A * 

: 

® C* -* O A * <1*5 

/ aV *% ^ oVlf* ^ ^ • 

^ r. 0 ^ ^!JL C % 9. ^ ^ .o v 




*7 

* 



a o 





0 


° «5 9<» 

K o ’S€W*>* 

% f' 

^ * " O <0 s 

• a v A • 

^ <y ^ 

s ^ ^ *o\ \ * 


*>*■ <*^ 


>: 


<•*5 

* ,V 

r \ c° v °o /' , ’\ 

* <k ft //yyb> * ^ <; v a^ •*■ j^iiiz/Pz^ _ ^ 

q> 9 « *>* < w 1 





o V 

iP'** <y~ 

^ ^ WWsr H ^ * 

rL V OS O * 

^ ° ° e 



o V 


0 


v r * : * °- *o 


o « 



'f.v // *r 

vV 


•T, A^ V 

° ^ c7 * 

° s V 
• : 

♦ v <* •> 




vn 

<5^ 

& 

/* > 


& 



<# c,^ 

■» ^- v '*’ 


0 v c 0 ♦ ■ o 




^ 0 




*- ^d» 



u> vX <"^ 


o K 


\ 


\ 


0 I 1 


^ * 0 N o ' J ^ v o * 9 , 1 * 


V o Y • °- 


\ 



O / 

o Vv C S 

vP b 


° A^^$» ° 

* V 



V f ’ * »-> 


O ^ » . S 



.-V 






■O. b-v A 



A 


\ 


o K 


n 


0 



^ 0 


0 4 o 

v ° 

^ K. > ^ 

• <ir o 


o 



O '® • * * 

A v . 1 ' * ^ ^ 

•T ^ 


o V . 
\0 0 
^ *£. 1 


^ . . o 




o 
















novels are sweets. All people with healthy hlerary appetites love them— almost all women ; a vast number 
of clever, hard-headed men. Judges, bishops, chancellors, mathematicians, are notorious novel readers, as 
well as young boys and sweet girls, and their kind, tender mothers.— W. M. Tiiaokeray, in Hour.daboul Papers. 


HARPER’S LIBRARY 

OF 

SELECT NOV ELS. 

Harper’s Select Library of Fiction rarely includes a work which has not a decided charm, either from the 
clearness of the story, the significance' of the theme, or the charm of the execution; so that on setting out 
upon a journey, or providing for the recreation of a solitary evening, one is wise and safe in procuring the 
later numbers of this attractive series .— Boston Transcript. 


PRIOR 


1. Pelham. By Bulwer $75 

2. The Disowned. By Bulwer 75 

3. Devereux. By Bulwer 50 

4. Paul Clifford. By Bulwer 50 

5. Eugene Aram. By Bulwer 50 

6. The Last Daj'S of Pompeii. By Bulwer 50 

7. The Czarina. By Mrs. Holland • 50 

8. Rienzi. By Bulwer . 75 

9. Self-Devotion. By Miss Campbell 50 

10. The Nabob at Home 50 

11. Ernest Maltravers. By Bulwer 50 

I 12. Alice; or, The Mysteries. By Bulwer 50 
! 13. The Last of the Barons. By Bulwer.. 1 00 
j 14. Forest Days. By James 50 

15. Adam Brown, the Merchant. By H. 

Smith 50 

16. Pilgrims of the Rhine. By Bulwer.... 25 

1 7. The Home. By Miss Bremer 50 

18. The Lost Ship. By Captain Neale 75 

19. The False Heir. By James 50 

20. The Neighbors. By Miss Bremer 50 

21. Nina. By Miss Bremer 50 

22. The President’s Daughters. By Miss 

Bretner 25 

23. The Banker’s Wife. By Mrs. Gore.... 50 

21. The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore 25 

25. ’New Sketches of Every-day Life. By 

Miss Bremer 50 

26. - Arabella Stuart. By James 50 

27. The Grumbler. By Miss Pickering.... 50 
28., The Unloved One. By Mrs. Hofland. 50 
29. Jack of the Mill. By William Howitt. 25 

. 30. The Heretic. By Lajetchnikoff 50 

31. The Jew. By Spindier 75 

32. Arthur. By Sue 75 

83. Chatsworth. By Ward 50 

34. The Prairie Bird. By C. A. Murray. 1 00 

35. Amy Herbert. By Miss Sewell 50 

36. Rose d’Albret. By James 50 

37. The Triumphs of Time. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

rr^l TT "f ^ — ! 1 __ T9 •• IVTInrt D m n M K II 


39. The Grandfather. By Miss Pickering. 50 

40. Arrah Neil. By James 50 

41. The Jilt 50 

42. Tales from the German 50 

43. Arthur Arundel. By H. Smith 50 

44. Agincourt. By James 50 

45. The Regent’s Daughter 50 

46. The Maid of Honor 50 

4 7. Safia. By De Beauvoir 50 

48. Look to the End. By Mrs. Ellis 50 

49. The Improvisatore.- By Andersen 50 

50. The Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs. Grey.. 50 

51. Veronica. By Zschokke 50 

52. Zoe. By Miss Jewsbury 50 


PRICE 

53. Wyoming $ 50 

54. De Rohan. By Sue 50 

55. Self. By the Author of “ Cecil ” 75 

56. The Smuggler. By James 75 

57. The Breach of Promise 50 

58. Parsonage of Mora. By Miss Bremer 25 

59. A Chance Medley. By T. C. Grattan 50 

60. The White Slave 1 00 

61. The Bosom Friend. By Mrs. Grey.. 50 

62. Amaury. By Dumas 50 

63. The Author’s Daughter. By Mary 

Howitt 25 

64. Only a Fiddler ! &c. By Andersen.... 50 

65. The Whiteboy. By Mrs. Hall 50 

66. The Foster-Brother. Edited by Leigh 

Hunt 50 

67. Love and Mesmerism. By H. Smith. 75 

68. Ascanio, By Dumas 75 

69. Lady of Milan. Edited by Mrs. 

Thomson 75 

70. The Citizen of Prague 1 00 

71. The Royal Favorite. By Mrs. Gore. 50 

72. The Queen of Den mark. By Mrs. Gore 50 

73. The Elves, &c. By Tieck 50 

74. 75. The Step-Mother. By James 1 25 

76. Jessie’s Flirtations 50 

77. Chevalier d’Harmental. By Dumas. 50 

78. Peers and Parvenus. By Mrs. Gore. 50 

79. The Commander of Malta. By Sue. . 50 

80. The Female Minister 50 

81. Emilia Wyndham. By Mrs. Marsh. 75 

82. The Bush-Ranger. By Charles Row- 

croft 50 

83. The Chronicles of Clovernook 25 

84. Genevieve. By Lamartine 25 

85. Livonian Tales 25 

86. Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh 25 

87. Father Darcy. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

88. Leontine. By Mrs. Maberly 50 

89. Heidelberg. By James 50 

90. Lucretia. By Bulwer 75 

91. Beauchamp. By James 75 

92. 94. Fortescue. By Knowles 1 00 

93. Daniel Dennison, &c. By Mrs. Hofland 50 

95. Cinq-Mars. By De Vigny 50 

96. Woman’s Trials. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 75 

97. The Castle of Ehrenstein. By James 50 

98. Marriage. By Miss S. Ferrier 50 

99. Roland Cashel. By Lever 1 25 

100. Martins of Cro’ Martin. By Lever.. .1 25 

101. Russell. By James 50 

102. A Simple Story. By Mrs. Inchbald.. 50 

103. Norman’s Bridge. By Mrs. Marsh... 50 

104. Alamance 50 

105. Margaret Graham. By James 25 


9 


Harper's Library of Select Novels. 


109. 

110 . 
111 . 
112 . 


TKIOE 

106. The Wayside Cross. Bv E. II. JNIil- 

man $ 25 

107. The Convict. By James 50 

108. Midsummer Eve. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 50 

Jane Eyre. By Currer Bell 75 

The Last of the Fairies. By James. . 25 

Sir Theodore Broughton. By James 50 
Self-Control. By Mary Brunton 75 

113, 114. Harold. By Bulwer 1 00 

115. Brothers and Sisters. By Miss Bremer 50 

116. Gowrie. By James 50 

117. A Whim and its Consequences. By 

James 50 

118. Three Sisters and Three Fortunes. 

By G. H. Lewes 75 

119. The Discipline of Life 50 

120. Thirty Years Since. By James 75 

121. Mary Barton. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 

122. The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By 

Thackeray 25 

123. The Forgery. By James.... 50 

124. The Midnight Sun. By Miss Bremer 25 

125,126. The Caxtons. By Bulwer 75 

127. Mordaunt Hall. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

128. My Uncle the Curate 50 

129. The Woodman. By James 75 

130. The Green Hand. A “ Short Yarn ” 75 

131. Sidonia the Sorceress. By Meinhold 1 00 

132. Shirley. By Currer Bell 1 00 

1 33. The Ogilvies 50 

134. Constance Lyndsay. By G. C. II 50 

135. Sir Edward Graham. By Miss Sin- 

clair 1 

136. Hands not Hearts. By Miss Wilkin- 

son 

137. The Wilmingtons. By Mrs. Marsh. . 

138. Ned Allen. By D. Hannay 50 

139. Night and Morning. By Bulwer 75 

140. The Maid of Orleans 75 

141. Antonina. By Wilkie Collins 50 

142. Zanoni. By Bulwer 50 

143. Reginald Hastings. By Warburton.. 50 

144. Pride and Irresolution 50 

145. The Old Oak Chest. By James 50 

146. Julia Howard. By Mrs. Martin Bell. 50 
Adelaide Lindsay. Edited by Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

Petticoat Government. By Mrs. Trol- 
lope 50 

149. The Luttrells. By F. Williams 50 

150. Singleton Fontenoy, R. N. By Hannay 50 

151. Olive. By the Author of “The Ogil- 

vies” 50 

152. Henry Smeaton. By James 50 

153. Time, the Avenger. By Mrs. Marsh. 50 

154. The Commissioner. By James 1 00 

155. The Wife’s Sister. By Mrs. Hubback 50 

156. The Gold Worshipers 50 

157. The Daughter of Night. By Fullom. 50 

Stuart of Dunleath. By Hon. Caro- 
line Norton 50 

Arthur Conway. By Captain E. II. 

Milman * 50 

The Fate. By James 50 

The Lady and the Priest. By Mrs. 
Maberly 50 

162. Aims and Obstacles. By James 50 

163. The Tutor’s Ward 50 

164. Florence Sackvi lie. By Mrs. Burbury 75 

165. Ravenscliffe. By Mrs’. Marsh 50 

166. Maurice Tiernay. By Lever 1 00 


00 

50 

50 


147. 

148. 


158. 

159. 

160. 

1G1. 


167. The Head of the Family. By Miss 

Mulock $ 75 

168. Darien. By Warburton 50 

169. Falkenburg 75 

170. The Daltons. By Lever 1 50 

171. Ivar; or, The Skjuts-Boy. By Miss 

Carlen 50 

172. Pequinillo. By James £0 

173. Anna Hammer. ByTemme 50 

174. A Life of Vicissitudes. By James... 50 

175. Henry Esmond. By Thacker y 50 

176,177. My Novel. By Bulwer 1 50 

178. Katie Stewart 25 

179. Castle Avon. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

180. Agnes Sorel. By James 50 

181. Agatha’s Husband. By the Author of 

“Olive” 50 

182. Villette. By Currer Bell 75 

183. Lover’s Stratagem. By Miss Carlen. 50 

184. Clouded Happiness. By Countess 

D’Orsay 50 

185. Charles Auchester. A Memorial 75 

186. Lady Lee’s Widowhood 50 

187. Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever... .1 25 

188. Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever 75 

189. Quiet Heart 25 

190. Aubrey. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

191. Ticonderoga. By James 50 

192. Hard Times. By Dickens 50 

193. The Young Husband. By Mrs. Grey 50 

194. The Mother’s Recompense. By Grace 

Aguilar 75 

195. Avillion, &c. By Miss Mulock 1 25 

196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell . 50 

197. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Du- 

p«y 50 

198. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jevvs- 

W 50 

199. The Heiress of Haughton. By Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

200. The Old Dominion. By James 50 

201. John Halifax. By the Author of 

“Olive,” &c 75 

202. Evelyn Marston. By Mrs. Marsh.... 50 

203. Fortunes of Glencore. By Lever 50 

204. Leonora d'Orco. By James 50 

205. Nothing New. By Miss Mulock 50 

206. The Rose of Ashurst. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Oliphant.... 

208. Scenes of Clerical Life 

209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell.* 

210. 211. Gerald Fitzgerald. By Lever... 

212. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock!] 

213. Sword and Gown. By Geo. Lawrence 

214. Misrepresentation. ’By Anna H. 

Drury ^ 

215. The Mill on the Floss. By George 

Eliot 75 

216. One of Them. By Lever 75 

217. A Day’s Ride. By Lever 50 

218. Notice to Quit. By Wills ]*’ 50 

219. A Strange Story qo 

220. Brown, Jones, and Robinson. Bv 

Trollope f ~q 

221. Abel Drakes Wife. By John Saun- 

ders 

222. Olive Blake’s Good Work. By J. C. 

Jeaffreson [ * 7 - 

223. The Professor’s Lady 25 

224. . Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock 50 
2^5. : Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon . . 75 


/<> 

75 

25 

50 

50 

25 

00 


75 


Harper's Library of Select Novels. 


3 


PBIOE 


226. Barrington. By Lever $75 

227. Sylvia’s Lovers. By Mrs. Gaskell.:.. 75 

228. A First Friendship 50 

229. A Dark Night’s Work. By Mrs. 

Gaskell 50 

230. Countess Gisella. By E. Marlitt 25 

231. St. Olave’s 75 

232. A Point of Honor 50 

233. Live it Down. ByJeaffreson 1 00 

234. Martin Pole. By Saunders 50 

235. Mary Lyndsay. By Lady Ponsonby. 50 

236. Eleanor’s Victory. By M. E. Braddon 75 

237. Rachel Ray. By Trollope 50 

238. John Marchmont’s Legacy. By M. 

E. Braddon 75 

239. Annie Warleigh’s Fortunes. By 

Holme Lee 75 

240. The Wife’s Evidence. By Wills 50 

241. Barbara’s History. By Amelia B. 

Edwards 75 

242. Cousin Phillis 25 

243. What Will He Do With It ? By Bul- 

wer 1 50 

244. The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. 

Edwards 50 

■ 245. Denis Duval. By Thackeray... *. .... 50 

| 246. Maurice Dering. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

247. Margaret Denzil’s History 75 

248. Quite Alone. By George Augustus 

Sala 75 

249. Mattie; a Stray 75 

250. My Brother’s Wife. By Amelia B. 

Edwards 50 

251. Uncle Silas. By J. S. Le Fanu 75 

252. Lovel the Widower. By Thackeray.. 25 

2*53. Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trol- 
lope 50 

254. On Guard. By Annie Thomas 50 

255. Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 50 

256. Denis Doone. By Annie Thomas.... 50 

257. Belial 50 

258. Carry’s Confession 75 

259. Miss Carew. By Amelia B. Ed- 

wards ...» 50 

260. Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Ed- 

wards 50 

261. GuyDevereil. By J. S. Le Fanu.... 50 

262. Half a Million of Money. By Amelia 

B. Edwards., 75 

263. The Belton Estate. By Anthony 

Trollope 50 

264. Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 

265. Walter Goring. By Annie Thomas.. 75 

266. Maxwell Drewitt. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 75 

267. The Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo 75 

268. Miss Marjoribanks. By Mrs. Olip- 

hant 50 

269. True History of a Little Ragamuffin. 

By James Greenwood 50 

270. Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of “A 

First Friendship” 1 00 

271. Sans Merci. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

272. Phemie Keller. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 50 

273. Land at Last. By Edmund Yates.... 50 

274. Felix Holt, the Radical. By George 

Eliot 75 

275. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saun- 

ders 75 

276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu. 50 

277. Kissing the Rod. By Edmund Yates 75 


raioa 

278. The Race for Wealth. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell $ 75 

279. Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg. By Mrs. 

Linton 75 

280. The Beauclercs, Father and Son. By 

C. Clarke 50 

281. Sir Brook Fossbrooke. By Charles 

Lever 50 

282. Madonna Mary. By Mrs. Oliphant . 50 

283. Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Black- 

more 75 

284. Bernthal. From the German of L. 

Muhlbach 50 

285. Rachel’s Secret 75 

286. The Claverings. By Anthony Trol- 

lope 50 

287. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss 

Thackeray 25 

288. Played Out. By Annie Thomas 75 

289. Black Sheep. By Edmund Yates 50 

290. Sowing the Wind. By E. Lynn 

Linton 50 

291. Nora and Archibald Lee 50 

292. Raymond’s Heroine 50 

293. Mr. Wynyard’s Ward. By Holme 

Lee 50 

294. Alec Forbes. By George Macdonald 75 

295. No Man’s Friend. By F. W. Robin- 

son : 75 

296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 50 

297. Caste 50 

298. The Curate’s Discipline. By Mrs. 

Eiloart 50 

299. Circe. By Babington White 50 

300. The Tenants of Malory. By J. S. Le 

Fanu 50 

301. Carlyon’s Year. By James Payn 25 

302. The Waterdale Neighbors 50 

303. Mabel’s Progress 50 

304. Guild Court. By Geo. Macdonald... 50 

305. The Brothers’ Bet. By Miss Carlen. 25 

306. Playing for High Stakes. By Annie 

Thomas. Illustrated... 25 

307. Margaret’s Engagement 50 

308. One of the Family. By James Payn. 25 

309. Five Hundred Pounds Reward. By 

a Barrister 50 

310. Brownlows. By Mrs. Oliphant 38 

311. Charlotte’s Inheritance. Sequel to 

“Birds of Prey.” By Miss Braddon 50 

312. Jeanie’s Quiet Life. By the Author 

of “St. Olave’s” 50 

313. Poor Humanity. By F. W. Robinson 50 

314. Brakespeare. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

315. A Lost Name. By J. S. Le Fanu. ... 50 

316. Love or Marriage? By W. Black.... 50 

317. Dead -Sea Fruit. By Miss Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

318. The Dower House. By Annie Thomas 50 

319. The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly. By 

Lever 50 

320. Mildred. By Georgiana M. Craik. ... 50 

321. Nature’s Nobleman. By tne Author 

of “Rachel’s Secret” 50 

322. Kathleen. By the Author of “Ray- 

mond’s Heroine” 50 

323. That Boy of Norcott’s. By Charles 

Lever 25 

324. In Silk Attire. By W. Black 50 

325. Hetty. By Henry Kingsley 25 

326. False Colors. By Annie Thomas 50 


4 


Harper's Library of Select Novels. 


PRICE 

327. Meta’s Faith. By the Author of “ St. 

Olave’s” $50 

328. Found Dead. By James Payn 50 

329. Wrecked in Port. By Edmund Yates 50 
830. The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 75 

331. A Beggar on Horseback. By James 

Payn 35 

332. Kitty. By M. Betham Edwards 50 

333. Only Herself. By Annie Thomas .... 50 

334. Hirell. By John Saunders 50 

335. Under Foot. By Alton Clyde 50 

33G. So Runs the World Away. By Mrs. 

A. C. Steele.. 50 

337. Baffled. By Julia Goddard 75 

338. Beneath the Wheels 50 

339. Stern Necessity. By F. W. Robinson 50 

340. Gwendoline’s Harvest. By James 

Payn 25 

341. Kilmeny. By William Black 50 

3f2. John: A Love Story. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 50 

343. True to Herself. By F. W. Robinson 50 

344. Veronica. By the Author of “Ma- 

bel’s Progress ”.. . .... 50 

345. A Dangerous Guest. By the Author 

of “Gilbert Rugge ” 50 

346. Estelle Russell 75 

347. The Heir Expectant. By the Author 

of “Raymond’s Heroine ”..... 50 

348. Which is the Heroine ? 50 

349. The Vivian Romance. By Mortimer 

Collins 50 

350. In Duty Bound. Illustrated 50 

351. The Warden and Barchester Towers. 

By A. Trollope 75 

352. From Thistles — Grapes? By Mrs. 

Eiloart 50 

353. A Siren. By T. A. Trollope 50 

354. Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite. 

By Anthony Trollope. Illustrated... 50 

355. Earl’s Dene. By R. E. Francillon.... 50 

356. Daisy Nichol. By Lady Hardy 50 

357. Bred in the Bone. By James Pavn.. 50 

358. Fenton’s Quest. By Miss Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

359. Monarch of Mincing - Lane. By W. 

Black. Illustrated 50 

360. A Life’s Assize. By Mrs. J. II. Rid- 

dell ;...... 50 

361. Anteros. By the Author of “Guy 

Livingstone ” 50 

362. Her Lord and Master. By Mrs. Ross 

Church 50 

' 363. Won — Not Wooed. By James Payn 50 

364. For Lack of Gold. By Chas. Gibbon 50 

365. Anne Furness 75 

366. A Daughter of Heth. By W. Black . 50 

367. Durnton Abbey. By T. A. Trollope. 

368. Joshua Marvel. ByB. L. Farjeon... 

369. Lovels of Arden. By M. E. Braddon. 

Illustrated 75 

370. Fair to See. By L. W. M. Lockhart. 75 

371. Cecil’s Tryst. By James Payn 50 

372. Patty. By Katharine S. Macquoid... 50 

373. Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas.... 25 

374. Grif. By B. L. Farjeon 40 

375. A Bridge of Glass. By F.W. Robinson 50 


PRICE 

376. Albert Lunel. By Lord Brougham.. $ 75 

377. A Good Investment. By Wm. Flagg. 50 

378. A Golden Sorrow. By Mrs. Cashel Hoey 50 

^79 Omhrn. T£v TVTrs Olinhanf nx 


7o 

50 


50 

40 


379. Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 

380. Hope Deferred. By Eliza F. Pollard 50 

381. The Maid of Sker. ‘ By R. D. Black- 

more 

382. For the King. By Charles Gibbon... 

383. A Girl’s Romance, and Other Tales. 

By F. W. Robinson 50 

384. Dr. Wainwright’s Patient. By Ed- 

mund Yates 50 

385. A Passion in Tatters. By Ann'e 

Thomas 75 

386. A Woman’s Vengeance. B v Jas. Payn. 50 

387. The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

By William Black 75 

388. To the Bitter End. By Miss Braddon. 75 

389. Robin Gray. By Charles Gibbon 50 

390. Godolphin. By Bulwer 50. 

391. Leila. By Bulwer 50 

392. Kenelm Chillingly. By Lord Lytton. 75 

393. The Hour and the Man. By Harriet 

Martineau 50 

394. Murphy’s Master. By James Payn... 25 

395. The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins 50 

396. “ ‘He Cometh Not,’ She Said.” By 

Annie Thomas •. 50 

397. Innocent. By Mrs. Oliphant. Illustrated 75 

398. Too Soon. By Mrs. Macquoid 50 

399. Strangers and Pilgrims. By Miss 

Braddon 75 

400. A Simpleton. By Charles Read e 50 

401. The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas 50 

402. Joseph the Jew 50 

403. Her Face was Her Fortune. By F. 

W. Robinson 50 

404. A Princess of Thule. By W. Black.’ 75 

405. Lottie Darling. By J. C. Jeaffreson. 75 

406. The Blue Ribbon. Bv the Author of 

“St. Olave’s” 50 

407. Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By An- 
thony Trollope 25 

408. Publicans and Sinners. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 75 

409. Colonel Dacre. By the Author of 

“Caste” 50 

410. Through Fire and Water. By Fred- 

erick Talbot 25 

411. Lady Anna. By Anthony Troilope.’ 50 

412. Taken at the Flood. By Miss Braddon. 75 

413. At Her Mercy. By James Pa} r n 50 

414. Ninety-Three. By Victor Hugo 25 

415. For Love and Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. TR 

416. Doctor Thorne. By Anthony Trollope. 

417. The Best of Husbands. By Jas. Pavn. 

418. Sylvia’s Choice. By Georgiana M. 

Craik ” ‘ 50 

419. ASack of Gold. BvMissV.W. Johnson 

420. Squire Arden. By Mrs. Oliphant.... 

421. Lorna Doone. By R. 1). Blackmore. 

422. Treasure Hunters. Bv Geo. M. Fenn 

423. Lost for Love. By Miss Braddon.... /© 

424. Jack s Sister. By Miss Dora Havers. 75 

42a. Aileen Ferrers. By Susan Morley . . . . 50 

426. The Love that Lived. By Mrs. Eiloart. 50 

427. In Honor Bound. By Charles Gibbon. *50 

4-8. Jessie Irim. By B. L. Farjeon 50 


50 


50 

75 

75 

40 


Harper & Brothers will send their -works by mail, postage prepaid, to my part of the 
United States , on receipt of the price. J r J 


AT THE 


SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


2V Noud. 



By bv iy far jeon, 


author OF 

“BLADE -O’- GRASS,” “GOLDEN GRAIN,” “JESSIE TRIM,” “T^E KING OF NO-LAND,” 
' “GRIF,” “LONDON’S HEART,” “JOSHUA MARVEL,” &c. 



NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 


FRANKLIN SQUARE. 


< s 7 5- 


// 


Oct /z ML 




~P Z 3 
. Fit°l 

/-\t 

% 


By B. *L. FARJEON. 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents. 
LONDON’S HEART. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, $1 00. 

GRIF : A Story of Australian Life. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. 

JOSHUA MARVEL. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. 

BLADE-O’-GRASS. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents. 

GOLDEN GRAIN. A Sequel to “ Blade-o’-Grass.” Illustrated. 8yo, Paper, 35 cents. 
JESSIE TRIM. 8 vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

THE KING OF NO-LAND. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents. 

AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Harper & Brothers will send either of the above works by mail , postage prepaid, to any 
part of the United States, on receipt of the price . 

{Ur ' A 



AT THE 


SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


PART THE FIRST. 

THE OTHER END OF TEE WORLD. 


I. 

SILVER CREEK TOWNSHIP. 

I T is December, and the sun is at a hundred 
and six in the shade. We are at the end of 
the world which, speaking in a worldly sense, 
we call the other end : we are in Australia, at 
Silver Creek, twelve months ago a wilderness, 
now a busy township. Within this brief space 
an infant in the history of cities has grown into 
a man. There is but one principal street in 
Silver Creek township, but that is a mile and a 
half long, and is lined with wooden tenements 
and calico tents, in which the business of the 
town is transacted. Stores of every descrip- 
tion, in which all things necessary, and many 
things unnecessary, for the proper carrying, out 
of life, are to be found along the line of this 
thoroughfare, which is called High Street. You 
may calculate how many stores High Street 
contains by setting down its length as a mile 
and a half, and by averaging each store at six- 
teen feet frontage. Some are built of wood, 
many of calico, and the inhabitants of one En- 
glishman’s home can hear the inhabitants of 
the next laughing and talking and bargaining 
during the day, and sighing and murmuring 
and groaning during the night. Not that the 
inhabitants of Silver Creek are all Englishmen ; 
other nationalities, thirsting to have their fin- 
gers in the golden pie, have sent their repre- 
sentatives, and Americans, Germans, French- 
men, Spaniards, Mongolians, and even Africans, 
hob-a-nob with one another, and make com- 
mon cause of it with the ubiquitous English- 
man. The pie is a rich one, but the fruit is 
unequally distributed, and there are many waste 
places in it (not seen until the crust is dived 
into), the discovery of which brings disappoint- 
ment to the hungry seekers. 

High Street had only one side, where the 
stores were built. Opposite the stores, at a 
distance of some four hundred yards, were hills, 
not very high, on which a long thin range of 
wooden houses was erected, which formed the 
Government Camp, where the official business 
of the township was transacted. There were 


the resident magistrate’s court, the treasury, 
the jail, and all the necessary adjuncts of civil 
government. The Gold-fields’ Commissioner, 
or the Warden as he was sometimes called, and 
his staff, and the resident magistrate, and some 
of the lesser luminaries, dwelt there, with their 
Chinese cooks, who were rare masters at crust 
and paste — which was but natural, as they were 
proverbially light-fingered. There they chatter- 
ed, and cooked, and smoked opium in their little 
wooden pipes, of which they were as tenderly 
solicitous as though they had been children of 
their blood ; and went elsewhere to the vilest and 
dirtiest nest of thoroughfares which the im- 
agination can conjure up, and which was known 
as the Chinese Camp, to gamble away their 
hard earnings. In this Camp, of course, was the 
Joss-house, with its absurd and senseless mum- 
meries ; and there, also, were certain dens where 
the Chinaman digger went to smoke himself 
into helplessness and idiocy. The provision 
stores were stocked with curiosities in the eat- 
ing way which made fastidious persons shud- 
der — such as preserved slugs and* snails (deli- 
cious delicacies to the Chinese palate), and bot- 
tles filled with what seemed to be pieces of pre- 
served monkey, while thousands of shreds of 
shriveled meat hung from the calico roofs, which 
were black with smoke. These shreds weighed 
about an ounce each, and looked like the dried 
and twisted skins and tails of rats. If ever 
night was made hideous, the Chinamen made 
it so in their camp, with the clanging of their 
gongs and tom-toms, and with the high treble 
of their voices. Between the Government 
Camp and the High Street ran a valley, through 
which a stream of water meandered ; this was 
the Silver Creek, from which the township de- 
rived its name. At the back of the High Street 
stores, dotting the hills and gullies for miles 
around, and at the back again of the Govern- 
ment Camp, were the white tents of the dig- 
gers. There was an eminence from which one 
could look down upon the scene, and it was 
well worth the labor to climb this height on a 
moonlight night, and gaze at the perspective 
of snow-white roofs, beneath which the tired 


8 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


miners were sleeping, and at the silver stream 
of water threading its way through the undu- 
lations. Then there was the Government Camp, 
prettily situated, and here and there clumps of 
silver-bark trees, and shadows of great ranges 
in the distance. Altogether it was a pictur- 
esque scene, and afforded food for the mind as 
well as the eye. 

The Silver Creek diggings more than ful- 
filled the promise of its name, for gold was 
found in its soil instead of silver. It was first 
discovered by Chinamen, who, working there 
undisturbed for a few weeks, and getting much 
gold, screeched like magpies when they saw 
six Tipperary men march on to their diggings 
and stick their picks into the ground. The 
following was the order of the proceedings of 
the Tipperary men : They first stuck their picks 
in the ground, at a distance of twenty yards 
from each other ; then they clustered together, 
and stood loosely about. In consultation? 
no ; to fill their pipes. These they lighted, and 
held firmly in their teeth ; then they marched 
up to the Chinamen’s shafts, and pausing at 
one, watched the man at the windlass pulling 
up the buckets. The Chinamen spoke not a 
word ; the new-comers spoke not a word. For 
full five minutes this was the state of things, 
and the Chinamen proceeded with their work 
sullenly ; from screeching magpies they were 
transformed into mute submissive slaves. Wrath 
and rebellion may have been in their hearts ; 
but outwardly they were the humblest of mor- 
tals. They cursed their ill-fortune, for it hap- 
pened that, when the Tipperary men appeared 
on the scene, they were pulling up wash-dirt, 
in which specks of gold could-be seen; but they 
cursed in silence. 

“How deep, John?” then asked one of the 
Tipperary men. He referred to the depth of 
the shaft at which the Chinamen were working. 
John did not reply. 

Be it here understood that on the Australian 

gold-fields all Chinamen have but one name 

John not given to them by their godfathers 
and godmothers. 

The Tipperary man repeated his question : 
“How deep, John?” 

John preserved silence. The Tipperary man 
and his mates followed suit for a few seconds. 
Presently they broke cover again : 

“M’lenty gold, John ?” 

M lenty meant plenty ; this was everywhere 
recognized as Chinamen’s English. 

“M’lenty gold, John?” 

John looked blankly into the face of his in- 
terlocutor. . He understood perfectly the na- 
ture of the inquiries addressed to him,- and was 
silent from a mixture of cunning, impotent an- 
ger, and helplessness. 

The Tipperary man quietly knocked the ash- 
es out of his pipe, and began cutting up caven- 
dish tobacco with a great spring-knife. His 
mates followed his example ; they knocked the 
ashes out of their pipes, and began cutting sticks 
of cavendish tobacco with great spring-knives. 


There was a wicked click in their knives as 
they opened them. The Chinamen’s eyes grew 
white, and they sighed for thunderbolts or light- 
ning to strike these desperadoes into ashes, or 
for some secret and as effectual means for get- 
ting rid of them. The Tipper&ry men filled 
their pipes again, stuck them between their 
teeth firmly, applied a match to them, and puff- 
ed away till they were well lighted. Then the 
man who had spoken took the Chinaman’s ear 
between his fingers, and another Tipperary man 
laid hold of the handle of the windlass ; the 
Chinaman was whirled aside, screaming and 
chattering ; a third Tipperary man put his foot 
into the bucket which w r as about to be sent 
empty to the bottom of the shaft, and grasped 
the rope above him with one firm hand ; the 
second man, working the windlass, slowly un- 
wound the rope and let his mate down the pit. 

The screams and chatter of the Chinaman 
who had been whirled from the windlass brought 
all his companions to the spot. They formed 
quite a small colony — numbering in all twenty- 
two souls. The Tipperary men wrnuld have grin- 
ned had they been told that they w r ere surround- 
ed by twenty-tw r o souls. They knew as much 
of theology as a laughing jackass did ; but, had 
they been put to it, they certainly w^ould have 
denied, with powerful emphasis, that Chinamen 
•have souls. They saw around them tw^enty-tw'o 
pasty faces, and twenty-two bodies dressed in 
blue dungaree ; had the Chinamen turned their 
backs, the Tipperary men would have seen 
twenty-two pigtails dangling from the crowms 
of the Chinamen’s heads, and trembling respon- 
sively from agitation. One Tipperary man 
was hanging between heaven and earth, with 
his foot in a bucket ; a second was letting him 
down the shaft, so that there w r ere four Tippe- 
rary men left to confront twenty-two Chinamen. 
Long odds; but they did not seem to think 
so, did not seem even to consider that there 
w’as the slightest danger. Certainly they play-, 
ed with their knives, but they played with them 
carelessly, without the slightest notion that they 
might be required for the cutting-up of China- 
men instead ofthe cutting-up of tobacco. These 
Tipperary men — or, as they should be more 
properly called, Tipperary boys— looked upon 
Chinamen as the scum of the earth, as so many 
cattle. And the Chinamen, in this instance, 
really did behave as though they were dirt be- 
neath the feet of the Tipperary boys. They 
screamed, they expostulated, they flashed their 
fingers in each other’s faces, but not in the faces 
of the Tipperary boys; but they did nothing 
more. The Tipperary boys, scarcely looking 
at the Chinamen, calmly sucked at their pipes. 

Suddenly a great screeching was heard at 
'the bottom of the shaft, W'hich might have come 
from twenty hungry and venomous cats let loose 
upon one another ; the Chinamen made a move- 
ment toward the shaft, but did not approach 
close enough to mingle with the Tipperary boys. 
The screeching continued, and an Irish oath or 
two, heartily uttered, gave it variety. A voice 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


9 


was heard from below, calling out one single 
word : 

“Up!” 

The moment this word was uttered, the man 
at the windlass worked at the handle, and be- 
gan to wind up the rope. There was a heavy- 
weight at the end of it, but the muscles of the 
Tipperary boy were equal to greater emergen- 
cies, and he turned the handle slowly and eas- 
ily, until there came in view the shaven head 
of another Chinaman, and then an antique 
weazened face, in which wrath and dismay were 
strongly expressed. The man at the windlass, 
stooping, clutched with his left hand the collar 
of the antique Chinaman, and pulling him out 
of the bucket, flung him among his companions, 
who instantly recommenced screaming, and 
chattering, and gesticulating with as much ve- 
hemence as ever, and as though their tongues 
had just been loosened for the first time for 
twenty years. The new arrival was much old- 
er than his companions : their faces were large 
and expressionless, his was small and vivacious ; 
theirs were smooth, and looked as though they 
were made out of dirty dough ; his was lined 
and wrinkled, and looked like an old and elab- 
orate carving; their eyes were mild and fish- 
like, his were full of dark fire. He seemed to 
be inciting his mates to open resistance ; his 
fingers flashed the numbers of friends and foes 
as his tongue uttered them — five to twenty- 
three ; he even drew partly out of its sheath a 
long, thin, glittering knife — but nothing came 
of it, for one of the Tipperary boys, observing 
the action* caught him instantly by the neck, 
dragged him from the midst of his companions, 
wrested the knife from his hand, and hurled 
him far away on the other side of the China- 
men. It was the work of an instant, and the 
twenty-three Mongolians — twenty-two on one 
side, one on the other — looked on, cowed and 
trembling. 

What had occurred at the bottom of the shaft 
is soon told. The Tipperary boy, when he 
landed on terra firma, and stepped out of the 
bucket, found the antique Chinaman busily at 
work in the gutter, where the gold was found. 
The intruder made short work of it, trying pa- 
cific means first. He pointed to the rope and 
the bucket, and motioned to the Chinaman that 
he was wanted above. The Chinaman shook 
his head, and did not understand. The Tippera- 
ry boy seized him, placed him by main force in 
the bucket, and then called to his mate to haul 
up. After this, a tape-line was let down the 
shaft, and the depth measured ; then the man 
below busied himself in tracing the bearings of 
the gold gutter, its dip and direction, and what 
was the nature of the earth above-and below it. 
Having satisfied himself upon these points, he 
half filled the bucket with the auriferous soil, 
and was pulled to earth’s surface. “All right, 
mates,” was all he said. Then he took a tin 
dish which belonged to the Chinamen, and, fill- 


ing it with the earth he had dug out of the gold 
gutter, walked toward the creek, followed by 
his mates and the Chinamen. He washed the 
earth carefully and deftly, and with experienced 
hands : all of them looked on, animated by 
various feelings, as he swung the dish round 
and round. Soon the gold came into view, 
dotting the lessened earth brightly, like stars in 
a dirty sky ; little by little all the earth was 
washed away, and the pure gold lay in a little 
heap in a corner of the tin dish. One of his 
mates pulled out a pair of gold scales, and the 
gold was weighed. 

“Four pennyweights to the dish,” he said. 

“How thick is the wash dirt?” asked one, 
of him who had been below. 

“About two foot and a half,” w r as the re- 
ply. 

Hurra ! It was a fortune if they could get 
claims in the gutter. The Chinamen waited 
anxiously. What w r ere their enemies now 
about to do ? The man who had washed the 
gold held it toward the rightful owners. 

“ M’lenty gold, John,” he said, with a laugh. 

Somewhat more satisfied as to the honesty 
of the intentions of the Tipperary boys, they 
nodded their heads violently enough almost to 
shake them off, and found their tongues. 

“Yes, yes. M’lenty gold! Englishman 
welly good man. Englishman get m’lenty 
gold!” And pointed to some distance, with 
tempting fingers, to show where gold was sure 
to be found in larger quantities. 

“All right, John,” they said; “we don’t 
want your claims. We only want to find out 
the lay of the gutter.” 

The Chinamen, understanding now the En- 
glish language, of which they were before so 
ignorant, became gratefully effusive. The old 
man darted forward to take the four penny- 
weights of gold. 

“Stop, though,” said a Tipperary boy, the 
lawyer of the company. “ Have ye got Min- 
er’s Rights? Where’s your Miner’s Rights?” 

Without their Miner’s Rights — which, it may 
be necessary to explain, were parchment grants 
from her Majesty the Queen, to mine the soil 
for gold, at the rate of one pound per year per 
man — the claims which the Chinamen were 
working were not legally theirs, and could be 
taken from them at a moment’s notice. In 
reply to the query, twenty -three hands were 
thrust into twenty -three blue dungaree bo- 
soms, and twenty -three pieces of parchment 
were waved triumphantly in the air. The gold 
was returned to them, and the Tipperary boys 
marked out claims for themselves on the line 
of the gutter, and were fortunate enough to hit 
the mark. The next day more men arrived 
on the ground, and in less than three months 
the township of Silver Creek was formed. Dig- 
gers and traders flocked there from all quarters, 
and a strangely-mixed crew were soon assem- 
bled together. 


10 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


II. 

HOW BABY OBTAINED IIER SHARE IN THE STAR 
DRAMATIC COMPANY. 

Silver Creek could soon boast of its news- 
paper, of course ; and, equally as a matter of 
course, it could almost as soon boast of its ri- 
val newspaper. In the High Street there were 
sale -yards and sale-rooms, banks, hotels, and 
restaurants, billiard-rooms, clothes and provis- 
ion stores, and a store with “Pie-office” writ- 
ten over it. This was almost as good as the 
peripatetic vender of baked potatoes, upon 
whose tin can was painted “The Universal 
Baked Potato Company (Limited).” The 
stores drove a roaring trade ; flags waved 
gayly over them ; a continual stream of people 
was flowing up and down. It was like a fair. 
Here were two Chinamen bearing a pole on 
their shoulders, in the centre of which dangled, 
head downward, a pig at the end of a rope, 
with its four feet tied in one knot. (When 
the Chinaman gets to Paradise he hopes to eat 
roast pig for breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper, 
through all eternity.) Here were half a dozen 
diggers in great thigh boots, dragging a jibbing 
horse along for their puddling machine, crack- 
ing their whips and leaping here and there in 
sympathy with the antics of their wild pur- 
chase. Here were American wagons, with 
handsome teams of horses, and bullock - drags 
yoked by patient, long-suffering cattle, the 
drivers of which were unloading their stores. 
Here was a negro with his gleaming teeth, and 
his face alight with humor, badgering a per- 
plexed Mongolian, and a crowd, of noisy dig- 
gers around them urging him on and laughing. 
The negro was proving, by the most absolute 
and logical of arguments, that he had a perfect 
right to enjoy the privileges of Silver Creek 
township, and that the Mongolian was an inter- 
loper, “A foreigner, sah !” and had no right 
there at all. Here was a great dray creaking 
along, loaded with portions of the first quartz- 
reefing machine which Silver Creek could boast 
of; and all along the road were men buying 
boots and clothes and picks and long and short 
handled shovels, and bars of steel, and powder 
and fuse, calling out to one another heartily 
the while. It was a scene filled with life and 
color. 

Among the new arrivals, of whom hundreds 
flocked into the township every day, were some 
dozen men and women, who came in dusty and 
weary with the toils of the road. They had 
traveled more than a hundred and fifty miles, 
being attracted to Silver Creek township by 
the news of its wonderful prosperity. They 
were a common-enough-looking troop, and did 
not seem like traders or gold-miners. They 
had with them a dray drawn by one horse — a 
poor weak-kneed creature, to whom existence 
seemed to be a burden as he toiled painfully 
along with his load behind him. What this 
load was could not be seen, for the dray had a 
tarpaulin over it ; upon the tarpaulin were seat- 


ed three women. The first who calls for no- 
tice by virtue of her position, was a stately per- 
son, probably about thirty -five years of age; 
her complexion was dark, and in her face was 
an expression which might be said to be stamp- 
ed upon it, and which represented all the trag- 
ic passions in little ; she bore herself loftily, 
in more senses than one. The second, about 
twenty-three years of age, was a nice-looking 
widow, with a pretty baby in her arms. The 
third was a beautiful girl, of some eighteen or 
nineteen summers. The men, who were all 
much sunburned, walked along by the side and 
in the rear of the dray, and looked curiously 
about them, and then at one another, with an 
air of “This will do.” The eyes of one of the 
party, the eldest, a man of over sixty years of 
age, were expressive of something more than 
curiosity; anxiety was plainly there, but pres- 
ently this latter vanished, and bright twinkles 
took their place. He rubbed his hands joy- 
ously. 

“It looks well,” he said. 

He was the chief of the party, which was 
nothing less than a company of actors and act- 
resses come to open the first theatre in Silver 
Creek. They had formed themselves into a 
joint-stock company, and were to divide prof- 
its in proportion to their abilities. There were 
twelve in the party, not reckoning the baby, 
and the number of shares in the company were 
thirty-six. These, after much anxious discus- 
sion and deliberation and some display of the 
peacock’s chief attribute, were distributed as 
follows : 

Shares. 

1. Tragedian, light comedian, and stage-manager, 


playing the lead in every thing 4$ 

2 . Heavy man 3 

3. First old man 2 $ 

4. Second old man 

5. First low comedy 3 

6 . Secoud low comedy 2 

7. Walking gentleman and treasurer 3 ' 

8 . Supernumerary . y 


9. Juvenile lead and general utility, scene-paint- 
er, acting-manager, and general director 4$ 

10. Leading lady 

11. First old woman 3 

( There was no second.) 

12. Chambermaid (who could sing and dance) ££ 

These proportions being settled, they jogged 
along comfortably, dreaming of full purses; 
but on the second day the First Old Man drew 
attention to the circumstance that although 
there were thirty-six shares in the company, 
only thirty-five had been allotted. The Walk- 
ing Gentleman, who, as treasurer, was looked 
upon as the arithmetician of the company and 
was the great authority in figures, instantly 
began to reckon up, for the fifty-seventh time, 
and made the number of shares thirty-seven : 
he tried again, and made them thirty -four; 
tried again, and made them thirty - eight. 
Then, in desperation, he said that the First 
Old Man had “discovered a mare’s nest,” and 
that the figures were quite right — thirty-six 
shares in the company, and thirty-six allotted. 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


11 


Hart in a tender point, the First Old Man be- 
gan again to pencil and reckon, and after achiev- 
ing a dozen different results, came back to his 
original discovery, and stuck to his guns like a 
man. Thereupon high words ensued between 
the Walking Gentleman and the First Old 
Man, and the matter was referred to the arbi- 
| tration of the other ten, who immediately set 
I to work to settle the dispute. The results 
| they produced were extraordinary, varying 
from seventeen to fifty-two; the highest and 
| the lowest totals being accomplished by the 
| First Old Woman (who, to prove the general 
i fitness of things, should have been the First 
! Old Man’s wife, but, in proof of the general 
i ?<rcfitness of things, wasn’t) and the singing and 
dancing Chambermaid. 

“/ make it fifty -two,” said the First Old 
Woman, in a despondent tone, “and what’s to 
! become of us I’m sure I don’t know.” She 
| said this in a tone which denoted that the sal- 
i vation of the Company was imperiled. 

“Fifty-two!” exclaimed the singing and 
acting Chambermaid, with a melodious laugh. 
“Why, my dear, it’s only seventeen!” 

The matter was so serious, and every body 
became so positive, that in a very short time 
they were all wrangling and disputing. Noth- 
ing was clear but one thing : that if these act- 
ors and actresses were a fair sample of the pro- 
fession they represented, then very few actors 
• and actresses are blessed with a genius for fig- 
ures. 

“This is a bad commencement,” frowned 
the Heavy Man, as was becoming in him; 
frowns were his special privilege. 

The Supernumerary was the only indifferent 
person ; his being the lowest share and repre- 
sented by the simple figure 1, he considered 
himself safe. Besides, he was a neophyte, who 
had fully made up his mind to rival the elder 
Kean one of these fine days ; he was content, 
in the mean time, to wait and suffer. Suffer- 
ing was the badge of all his tribe. 

Those were most uneasy and perplexed who 
held fractions of shares, such as the Tragedian 
and Stage-manager, and the Leading Lady of 
the company. 

A happy thought entered the mind of the 
eldest man of the party, whose shares, repre- 
sented by 4£, were set against No. 9, General 
Utility, Scene-painter, Acting-manager, etc. 

“ I have it ! ” he cried, slapping his thigh with 
the vigor of a younger man. 

The others looked doubtful but listened with 
attention, for he was one whom they all re- 
spected and regarded with affection. 

“ It is easily arrived at,” he continued ; “ let 
us take thirty-six shillings, which will represent 
the thirty-six shares, and give each his propor- 
tion. Then, if there is no money left, no mis- 
take has been made.” 

This proposal was received with laughter and 
applause, the largest demonstrations coming 
from those whose pockets were bare of shil- 
lings. For, truth to tell, these heroes and hero- 


ines of the sock and buskin were impecunious. 
This circumstance is not uncommon ; the con- 
dition is almost chronic in the Profession. 

“ Contributions !” cried the Acting-manager, 
pulling out of his own pocket no fewer than sev- 
enteen shillings — a very Croesus he. 

Others gave timidly, hesitatingly, grudging- 
ly, doubtfully, for the risk was not small. The 
Heavy Man had nothing to give ; the Second 
Old Man the same contribution ; the Supernu- 
merary the same. The Treasurer, as became 
a “Walking Gentleman,” was light of heart 
as he was of pocket ; he looked forward with 
hope, rich argosies were before him. The First 
Old Woman produced a plethoric purse, which 
proved, however, to be stuffed, not with bank- 
notes, but with critical notices of her abilities 
as the first of First Old Women. She man- 
aged to get together a sixpence and two four- 
penny -pieces, which she handed to the Act- 
ing-manager, asking for two-pence change. He 
gave her the demanded two -pence, and was 
haunted by visions of future complications. 
The Leading Tragedian contributed three shil- 
lings, the whole of his wealth. The First Old 
Man produced four shillings, saying, “I give 
thee all— -I can no more;” but he had mon- 
ey concealed. “Who steals my purse steals 
trash,” observed the First Low-comedy Man, 
tossing a bad shilling to the Acting-manager. 
In due time the full complement of thirty-six 
shillings, representing thirty-six shares, lay in 
the Acting-manager’s palm. He apportioned 
them to the cry of “ The ghost walks !” Four- 
and-sixpence to the Leading Tragedian, three 
shillings to the Heavy Man, and so on and so 
on, until each had received his share. Then 
he found he had a shilling left, and by this prim- 
itive arithmetic the First Old Man was proved 
to be right. 

The next thing to be accomplished was the 
difficult task of collecting and re-distributing 
the shillings which had been advanced. This 
occasioned some comically -distressing scenes. 
The responsibility fell upon the Acting-man- 
ager, who had advanced seventeen shillings. 
When every body was satisfied, he had only 
fourteen shillings left, which he pocketed with 
a grimace, amidst general laughter. 

Then, 

“What’s to be done with the other share?” 
was asked. 

It never occurred to these Bohemians that 
the matter might rest where it was, and that 
the company could be carried on as well with 
thirty-five shares as thirty-six. 

“Oh, I’ll take it,” said First Low Comedy, 
“rather than it should cause disturbances. ” 

■ “ Will you?” from other throats. “ But I’ll 
take it !” 

“And I!” 

“And I!” 

It threatened to become a bone of desperate 
contention. 

Another happy thought occurred to the Act- 
ing-manager. Again he slapped his thigh. 


12 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


“I have it!” he cried. “Give it to the 
baby !” 

“Bravo!” cried the other ten; the mother 
remained silent. “Bravo!” Give it to the 
baby ! ” 

“ Agreed ! ” sang the First Low-comedy Man, 
in the character of one of Macbeth's Witches. 

“Agreed!” sang the Second Low-comedy 
Man, in the character of another of Macbeth's 
Witches. 

And, 

“Agreed !” they all broke out in full chorus. 

Then they filled the woods with the music 
from Macbeth , and danced round an imaginary 
caldron. 

Thus the baby became a share-holder. 

It was not the worst of small comedies this 
that was played in the Australian woods on a 
blazing summer’s day in January. Many pas- 
sions and emotions were represented in it in a 
small way. The curtain falls upon it as the 
mother tosses her baby in the air, and as the 
child is passed from one to another to be kissed. 

If in response to the general applause, which 
I hope will not be wanting, the curtain is drawn 
aside again, the weak-kneed horse will be sham- 
bling leisurely along, and the Heavy Man will 
be taking great strides in advance of the oth- 
ers, with the baby on his shoulders, crowing and 
laughing and flourishing her dimpled fists in the 
air. 

» 

III. 

TIIE OPENING OP THE THEATRE, AND WHAT 

PART BABY TOOK IN TIIE PERFORMANCES. 

The news of the arrival of Hart’s Star Dra- 
matic Company spread through the Silver Creek 
Gold-fields like wildfire, and every able-bodied 
man and woman (about thirty of the former to 
one of the latter, so you may guess what a pre- 
cious commodity woman was) within ten miles 
around resolved to pay them a visit. It was 
really an event in the history of the township; 
with the exception of casinos, sing-songs, and 
negro entertainments, there had been no amuse- 
ments, and the inhabitants looked forward to 
the opening night with great interest and ex- 
citement. 

Mr. Hart, who was the originator and guid- 
ing-star of the company, was the old man al- 
ready referred to as the Acting-manager; he 
was the putty that kept the separate parts of 
the venture together, for without him the con- 
cern would have gone to pieces. It devolved 
upon him to heal every difference that arose 
among the members of the company ; no sine- 
cure this, for Vanity’s ruffled feathers had to 
be smoothed a dozen times a week. In every 
difficulty he was the one appealed to, and his 
decision was invariably received with respect, 
if not with equanimity, for he was known to be 
a just man. He had led a strange and wan- 
dering life, had been jack-of-all-trades and mas- 
ter of none, as he himself said, and was in every 


respect a gentleman. He spoke French and 
German, and was in other ways well educated ; 
he painted, he sang, he spoke well, and knew 
how to conduct himself — in other words, he 
had no low vices, and here he was an old man, 
fourteen thousand miles away from the land of 
his birth, an adventurer, with a purse as lean 
as Falstaff’s. He had been all over the world, 
and (rare gift) had made friends everywhere ; 
no one had ever been heard to speak an ill 
word of him. That so old a man, becoming 
attached to a Star Dramatic Company, should 
play the Juvenile Lead will not be wondered at 
by persons acquainted with the peculiarities of 
the profession ; as little will it be wondered at 
that the First Old Man was barely out of his 
teens. These reversals of the proper order of 
things are common. Was Mr. Hart happy? 
His eye was bright, his step was light, and his 
heart was as fresh as a young man’s. For the 
rest, the question will be answered as this story 
proceeds. 

Being in the Silver Creek township, with 
probably five pounds between them, the first 
thing to be seen to was the building of a thea- 
tre. This was easily accomplished. Directly 
their arrival and purpose became known, the 
proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle 
Hotel and Restaurant addressed Mr. Hart. 

“ You want a theatre to play in,” said he. 

“ We do,” replied Mr. Hart. 

“ Is your company a good one ?” 

“I think I may say it is. Go and look at 
our women.” 

“I’ve seen them. You’ve a real beauty 
among them. I’m not a man to beat about the 
bush, and you look like a man to be trusted.” 

“ Try me.” 

“ I will. I’ll build you a theatre at the back 
of my hotel on the following conditions : You 
will undertake to play in no other place for 
three months. You will undertake to play in 
my theatre for six nights a week for three 
months, and the entertainment shall not last 
less than four hours. You will undertake to 
hand over to me every night one-fifth of the 
gross money received, that being the rent I shall 
charge you. You will undertake that you and 
all of you shall board and lodge at the Rose, 
Shamrock, and Thistle, and to pay me three 
pounds per week per head for such board and 
lodging— baby not to count.” He concluded 
abruptly by saying, “ That’s all.” 

Mr. Hart, with the mind of a general, de- 
bated for one moment, and resolved the next. 

“How many people will the theatre hold?” 

“A thousand,” replied the enterprising ho- 
tel-keeper promptly. It was a rough guess ; 
he had not the slightest idea as to the size of 
the place required for the accommodation of 
the number. 

“ How long will the theatre take to build?” 

“ One week,” was the brisk reply. 

“ Then we can open in ten days,” said Mr. 
Hart. “There’s my hand on it.” 

Within an hour a contract was given for 


13 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


the building of The Royal; within two it was 
commenced ; within a week it was finished ; 
and on the tenth night it was opened. Men 
never know what they can do till they try; 
wonders can be accomplished only by saying 
they shall be accomplished, and setting to work 
on them. It is grappling with small things 
that dwarf men’s minds ; give them a wilder- 
ness to conquer, and they rise to the occasion. 
When I say “ them,” I mean especially Ameri- 
cans and English : next to them, but not equal 
to them, the Germans ; least of all civilized na- 
tions, with capacity to make grand use of such 
opportunity, the French. 

The excitement in Silver Creek was tremen- 
dous. Crowds thronged the High Street dur- 
ing the opening day of the Theatre Royal. 
The Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle did a roaring 
trade. Eight hundred pounds were taken over 
the bars for drinks before six o’clock in the 
evening ; no drink less than a shilling. Some 
contemptible rival grog-shop in the vicinity had 
already reduced the price of a glass of ale to 
sixpence, but the miners turned their noses up 
at it. Fabulous prices were offered for the 
privilege of going into the theatre before the 
doors were open, and securing seats ; the land- 
lord of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle turned 
a deaf ear. 

“Fair play, mates,” he said; “first come, 
first served ; and the devil take the hindmost.” 

(Which, if the devil did, he would have had 
a good haul, for the hindmost on that night 
stood for a thousand at least.) 

“Bravo, mate,” the rough diggers cried; 
“you’re the right sort !” 

He looked it, as he stood behind the bar, 
passing the jest and merry word, with one eye 
gleaming cordially on his customers, and the 
other eye looking sharply after his till, and 
nothing loath to make his “pile” (or fortune) 
with his sleeves tucked up, and to boast of it 
afterward. 

The scene that was witnessed that night 
within the walls of the new Theatre Royal was 
one which not many have the privilege of see- 
ing. Before the curtain drew up, there were 
two hundred and twenty pounds in the draw- 
ers. And listen to this with envy, you harass- 
ed lessees ; there were only three persons ad- 
mitted within the walls of the Theatre Royal 
who did not pay; these were the proprietor, 
and the editors of the two newspapers. Happy 
theatrical manager ! Only two newspaper ed- 
itors to woo and conciliate! Deducting the 
landlord’s fifth, and the expenses for printing 
and lighting, there would not be less than one 
hundred and forty pounds to divide. Why, at 
that rate, even the baby would have four pounds 
for her share so curiously acquired. The en- 
tertainment was arranged to show off the full 
strength of the company. A “screaming” 
farce, to set the audience in a good humor (it 
was not required) ; a dance by the Chamber- 
maid, not dressed as a chambermaid, be it here 
remarked: a stirring melodrama; and a two- 


act comic drama to conclude with. A liberal 
programme — one which made the proprietor of 
the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle rub his hands 
with satisfaction. The actors and actresses, as 
they came on the stage, were, greeted with roars 
of applause ; as though they were already old- 
established favorites ; the very supernumerary, 
the neophyte who intended to rival the elder 
Kean, received a round, which made him cer- 
tain that fame was within his grasp. All 
through the night, the audience seemed to be 
anxiously looking out for new faces to give them 
cordial greeting. The farce was literally a 
“screaming” farce; if the author of the poor 
little literary bantling had been present, it would 
have done his heart good, and he might have 
had dreams of greatness. When the curtain 
fell on the farce, it seemed impossible for any 
thing to be more successful ; but the dance that 
followed it eclipsed it. 

The diggers could not have the farce re- 
peated — although they would have been well 
content to have it, one fellow actually crying 
out, “Let’s have it all over again, mates!” — 
but they could have the dance again, and they 
did, once, twice, thrice, and would have insist- 
ed on it again, but that the poor girl stood be- 
fore them with panting bosom, like a deer at 
its last gasp, and appealed to them as prettily 
as her exhaustion would allow her to do. The 
diggers stood up, waved their billycock hats, 
and cheered her as she never had been cheered 
before ; and one threw a crown-piece on the 
stage, and another cried, “I can beat that, 
mate!” and threw a sovereign. Then it com- 
menced to rain silver and gold, and the girl 
stood aside at the wings, half frightened at the 
shower. It amounted to no less than eleven 
pounds, which she gathered up in her gauze 
dress and walked off with, kissing her hand 
and smiling bewitchingly on the generous giv- 
ers, who felt themselves well paid for their lib- 
erality. (Before the week was out this dan- 
cing and singing Chambermaid had forty-two 
distinct offers of marriage, and the other two 
ladies of the company each about half as piany.) 
Then came the Tragedian’s chance, in the 
melodrama, and good use did he make of it. 
But decidedly the greatest success of the night 
was achieved by the smallest member of the 
company, and in an unexpected way. If any 
person was to be thanked for it, it was the Act- 
ing-manager, Mr. Hart. It occurred in this 
wise : The Leading Lady dropped a few words 
which were construed into an objection to the 
baby receiving its one thirty-sixth share of the 
receipts. The mother (who was the First Old 
Woman of the company) heard them, and spoke 
to Mr. Hart with tears in her eyes. The sing- 
ing Chambermaid stood near. 

“The spiteful thing!” she exclaimed. 

“Never mind,” said Mr. Hart, “we’ll get 
over the difficulty; the baby shall appear in 
the last piece.” 

The mother in astonishment said that was 
impossible. 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


14 

“It is quite possible,” answered Mr. Hart, 
“and shall be done.” 

“ But she’ll be asleep, the darling !” exclaim- 
ed the mother. 

“All the better,” was the answer. “She’ll 
have nothing to say. You play in the piece. 
Now attend to my instructions ;” and he forth- 
with gave them to her. 

In the drama, the mother, who really played 
the part of a mother, had to sit at a table for 
five or six minutes, sewing, and speaking per- 
haps a dozen words, while the action of the 
piece was being carried on by two characters 
who occupied the front of the stage. Mr. 
Hart, in this scene, placed the cradle on the 
stage, with the baby in it. When the mother 
went to her seat at the table, she took the baby 
from the cradle on to her lap. “Why, it’s a 
real baby!” cried the diggers, and a buzz of 
delight ran through the house. Suddenly the 
baby awoke, opened her eyes, and stared with 
all her might at the audience, whose attention 
was now entirely fixed upon the movements of 
the pretty little thing. The mother raised her 
to her feet on her lap, and the child, pleased 
with the light and glitter of the scene, clapped 
her little hands — one of her pretty tricks — 
while her face broke out into smiles and dim- 
ples. This was enough for the diggers ; they 
laughed, they clapped their hands, they applaud- 
ed, they cried, “Bravo, young un!” as if the 
baby had performed the most marvelous feats; 
and when the mother, carried away by her 
feelings, tossed her baby in the air, who fell 
into her arms crowing and laughing, this little 
touch of nature roused the audience to a pitch 
of the wildest enthusiasm. They called for 
three cheers for the baby, and three for the 
mother, and three more on the top of those, 
and some of the men left money at the bars of 
the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, to buy sweets 
and cakes for the youngster. “A great suc- 
cess,” remarked Mr. Hart; “no one can say 
now that she is not entitled to her share. It 
will be as well to repeat the baby every even- 
ing until further notice. It will draw.” 

Baby did “draw,” and the performances went 
on bravely. Full houses every night. At the 
end of the week, after paying expenses, there 
were nearly six hundred pounds to divide. 
The money was shared on the Saturday night, 
after the performances. Mr. Hart, with his 
share tightly grasped in his hand, walked into 
his bedroom and locked the door. Then he 
lit a candle, and out of a small trunk took a 
little packet of letters and a portrait. He knelt 
by the bed, and read the letters with slow de-? 
light; they were short, and the earlier ones 
were written in a large straggling hand. He 
opened the portrait-case, and gazed lovingly 
on the picture of a beautiful girl; a child, 
with laughing hazel eyes and light curls. He 
kissed it again and again ; and taking from his 
share of the money he had received a sum bare- 
ly sufficient for his necessities, he deposited the 
balance in a safe corner of the trunk. “For 


you, my darling, for you,” he murmured, speak- 
ing to the pretty picture before him. “God 
preserve and bless you, and make your life hap- 
py!” Tears came into his eyes and rolled 
down his cheeks ; and sweet remembrance 
brought his darling into his arms, where she 
lay as she had lain in the last day he saw her, 
seven years ago. “My darling must be al- 
most a woman now,” he mused, with a yearn- 
ing heart. And so he'knelt and dreamed, and 
garlanded his heart’s treasure with loving 
thoughts. Many a rough, hard life is in this 
way sweetened and purified. 

* 

IV. 

MR. IIART SEARCHES FOR A GOLDEN REEF. 

Gold was first discovered at Silver Creek 
in the alluvial soil in the gullies, a few feet be- 
neath the surface. In some cases the metal 
was picked up on the surface, and tracked into 
the bowels of the earth. Sometimes the gold 
gutter ran across great plains, which soon were 
riddled with holes and covered with hillocks 
of pipeclay soil; sometimes it ran into hill- 
sides, where the miners tracked it, until the 
sinking became too deep for profitable labor, 
or until the “lead,” as it was called, was lost. 
Some of the richest “ patches ” of gold that had 
been found in the colony were found here and 
there in Silver Creek. In Sailors’ Gully, for 
instance, there was a famous claim where one 
gold lead crossed another; the fortunate men 
who happened to light on this rare junction 
were runaway sailors, and they made no secret 
of the fact that they washed fourteen hundred 
ounces Qf gold out of twelve buckets of earth 
in one day. In the same week, the man who 
was working at the windlass (there were only 
two partners in this concern) began to turn 
the handle, and found that the weight at the 
other end of the rope was greater than he an- 
ticipated. He knew that it was only a bucket 
of earth he was winding up, for he heard it 
bump against the' sides of the claim. When 
he caught sight of the bucket he almost let the 
handle of the windlass slip from him in his ex- 
citement. It was not earth he was hauling up, 
it was gold; and it proved to be the richest 
bucket of earth that was found in Silver Creek. 

It yielded thirteen hundred ounces of the pre- 
cious metal; no less. The fortunate sailors 
celebrated the occasion, decorated the claim 
with as many flags as they could get together, 
fired off their revolvers for an hour as rapidly 
as they could load them, bought up all the grog 
in the gulley, and invited all the diggers round 
about to join them in drifiking it. That bucket 
of gold and dirt was almost the death of them ; 
but they recovered themselves in a day or two, 
and set to work again soberly and sensibly, and 
retired, after ten weeks’ labor, with a fortune 
of seventeen thousand pounds between them. 
After a time men began to look for gold in 


AT THE SIGN OE THE SILVER FLAG ON. 


15 


the hills. It was settled years ago by the 
I miners that all the gold that was found in the 
gullies was washed down from the ranges. Be- 
fore many days had passed, quartz reefs were 
found with great lumps of gold in the stone ; 
and one Saturday the principal gold-broker in 
Silver Creek displayed in his window a mass 
of stone which could not have weighed less 
than two hundred pounds, and which was lit- 
; erally studded and veined with gold. It was 
labeled “From Pegleg Reef,” so named be- 
cause it was discovered by a man with a wood- 
i en leg. Then commenced a craze, and every 
j body w r ent mad on quartz. This brings us to 
a day when Mr. Hart, who, with his company, 
had now been in Silver Creek for three weeks, 
■winning money and laurels, was walking over 
: the ranges, at some distance from the township, 

( with a short-handled pick over his shoulder, a 
j hammer in his hand, and a “fossicking ” knife 
in his belt. The craze for discovering a quartz 
j reef had infected him, and he was looking for 
| a trail. 

Let it at once be confessed that Hart was 
i not his real name ; you will meet with him by- 
| and-by at another end of the world, when he 
i will play his part without an alias. He had 
no particular reason for not using his proper 
I name; except that some years ago, when he 
| was obliged to take to the stage for a living, he 
I called himself Hart in the bills, and so remain- 

i . ed. If you can love this man as you proceed 
with this story, I shall be glad ; for he was a 
|| large-souled man, who had never been guilty 
of a meanness. That he was always poor came 
from the generosity of his nature, which fre- 
quent disappointments had not been able to 
sour; he could never stoop to trickery for 
money. In his younger days he had frequent- 
jj ly been heard to despise money ; but I think, 
now that he was old, his views were beginning 
| to experience a change. Else why should he 
be now toiling over the hills, on this hot sultry 
day, with his eyes eagerly bent to the earth, in 
search of gold ? 

He came to the ridge of a range, and he 
paused for a few moments to look back on the 
I township. He could see it clearly from the 
I* height on which he stood. The air was still; 
the heavens were full of beautiful color ; the 
white tents of the diggers shone in the sun. 
A world in miniature was before him. Gold 
had lately been discovered in a large plain, 
which with its busy life was stretched beneath 
him. At the farthermost edge of this plain 
' were a dozen puddling machines at work, and 
two or three dams filled with clear water which 
had not yet been polluted. The water gleamed 
and glittered like sheets of burnished silver; 
the tiny horses walked round and round, yoked 
to their wheels ; the tiny men flitted here and 
there across the plain, and bent over heaps of 
auriferous soil ; and worked at toy windlasses, 
with ropes no thicker than thread ; thin wreaths 
of smoke curled from the rear of the tents, where 
the smallest women in the world were washing 


and cooking; liliputians were cutting down 
trees for fire-wood with bright sharp axes which 
were indicated by thin, keen flashing edges of 
light as they were flourished in the air. 

Mr. Hart turned his back upon these signs 
of busy life, and descended the range on the 
other side. On and on he walked, without dis- 
covering any indications of gold, although lie 
paused to crack many a score pieces of the 
quartz which studded the hills. He smiled cu- 
riously at his ill-success. “Well,” he mused, 
as if arguing with himself, “ but I should like 
to find a golden reef. Let me see. A golden 
reef, yielding say twenty, thirty ounces to the 
ton. Ah, Gerald, Gerald ! don’t be greedy. 
Say fifteen ounces, and be satisfied. A hun- 
dred tons — fifteen hundred ounces ; six thou- 
sand pounds. And then, Home! home! home! 
Ah, my darling, how my heart yearns to you ! 
But you are happy, thank God, and if I never 
look upon your sweet face, if I never hold you 
in my arms — ” He paused suddenly, with an 
aching feeling in his breast. “ I must see her 
— I must see her !” he murmured ; and stretch- 
ing forth his arms, cried half seriously, “ Come, 
Fortune, and take me to her !” 

He was alone, and no one heard him. For 
hour he had seen no evidences of human 
life about him ; Silver Creek township was en- 
tirely shut out from view. On he walked, not 
stopping to chip now, for he thought that, he 
might have a better chance of finding a golden 
reef if he went farther afield. He must have 
walked fully two miles farther, when he saw 
before him at a distance of a few hundred yards 
a thick clump of trees arranged by nature al- 
most in a straight line, and entirely obscuring 
the view that lay beyond it. He plunged into 
the thicket— for it was no less — and through 
it, and found himself before another thicket 
of trees similarly arranged. Between the two 
thickets there were probably not more than two 
hundred feet of clear ground. The interven- 
ing space was treeless, and the woods between 
which he stood were of a great height. The 
light came through the uppermost branches in 
slanting devious lines, which, as you moved, 
darted hither and thither, as though imbued 
with life. The ground was all in shadow, and 
so solemn was the stillness and so dim the 
light in this space, that it seemed like a page 
out of another existence. Lost in admiration, 
Mr. Hart paused for a while, and then plunged 
into the second thicket, and found it denser 
than the first. In a quarter of an hour, he 
emerged into the open unobscured sunlight 
again. Before him rose a vast range covered 
with quartz. He considered within himself 
whether it was worth his while to climb this 
range ; the quartz looked tempting, and he had 
heard that the richest reefs were sometimes 
found on such heights ; it seemed to him as 
though it had never been prospected. He de- 
cided that he would mount the range. 

It was a difficult task that he had set him- 
self ; the range was longer, steeper than he had 


1G 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


imagined, and the day was very hot. He was 
compelled to stop and rest. “Shall I go to 
the top, or turn back?” he asked of himself. 
He was inclined to retrace his steps, until he 
thought of his darling at home : he took her 
picture from his pocket, and kissed it many 
times. “ I will go up,” he said, “ to the very 
top. I might hear one day that a golden reef 
had been found on the summit of this very hill, 
and then I should never forgive myself.” Lit- 
tle did he suspect how much hung upon that 
moment of hesitation. Little did he suspect 
that simply by mounting this hill, the means 
of bringing into his daughter’s life its greatest 
joy and happiness were to be put into his hands. 
But even had he suspected it, his wildest dream 
would not have afforded a clue to the manner 
of its accomplishment ; and yet he himself was 
to be the man who was to bring it about. 

He mounted the hill ; he reached its summit. 
Then he found that others had been before him. 
A shaft had been sunk : a windlass was erected. 
Mr. Hart judged from the great hillock of earth 
by the side of the claim, that the pit could not 
be less than a hundred feet deep. A tree, split 
in two, was on the ground close by, with its in- 
ner surfaces exposed. 

Mr. Hart went to the windlass, thinking at 
first that the claim was a deserted one, for he 
saw no person on the hill. But the sound of 
metal upon stone which came to his ears from 
the bottom of the shaft was sufficient to con- 
vince him that his idea was wrong. 

A little heap of quartz lay within a yard or 
two of him. He examined it, and found gold 
in it. He took up piece after piece, and in ev- 
ery other piece there were traces of gold. He 
cast greedy glances, not at the quartz he was 
examining, but along the brow of the hill, be- 
yond the boundary pegs which marked the area 
of the prospectors’ claim. Then, turning, he 
jumped back with a loud cry, for a man was 
lying on the ground at his feet, and he had al- 
most trodden on his upturned face. But an- 
other thing that he saw held him for a moment 
motionless from fear. 

The man was asleep, and in his hair was 
moving a long brown reptile, with, as it seem- 
ed, numberless legs, which were all in motion, 
stealthily and venomously. Two slender horns 
protruded from its head, and behind the horns 
its eyes gleamed with spiteful fire. Mr. Hart 
knew immediately that it was a centipede — a 
very large one of its species — and that its sting 
might bring death to the sleeper. It had crawl- 
ed out of the centre of the split tree which lay 
near, and was now crawling from the hair on to 
the face of the sleeping man. Taking his hand- 
kerchief in his hand for protection, Mr. Hart, 
with a swift and sudden movement, plucked 
the crawling reptile from the sleeper’s hair, and' 
threw it and his handkerchief a dozen yards 
away. 

“Halloo, mate,” cried the man, aroused by 
the action, and jumping to his feet, “what are 
you up to ?” 


lie was a young and handsome man, with a 
noble beard hanging on his breast, and with his 
hair'hanging almost to his shoulders. His eyes 
were blue, his hair was brown. Ilis skin was 
fair, as might be seen, not in his face, nor on his 
neck where it was bared to the sun, but just be- 
low the collar of his light-blue serge shirt, the 
top button of which was unfastened. In age 
probably twenty-five or six. In height, five feet 
ten inches or thereabouts ; a model of strength, 
beauty, and symmetry. Such a form and figure 
as one of the old painters would have loved to 
paint, and as might win the heart of any woman 
not in love and that way inclined — as most wom- 
en are, naturally. 

Impetuous, fiery, aggressive, his first thought 
was that the stranger had attacked him in his 
sleep. He did not wait for a second thought, 
but pulled a revolver from his belt, where it was 
slung covered by a leathern sheath, and leveled 
it at Mr. Hart. In new gold-fields these weap- 
ons were necessary for self-defense; like vul- 
tures after carrion (although the simile does not 
entirely hold good), the most desperate charac- 
ters fly to new gold-fields on the first scent of 
gold, resolved to get it by hook or by crook. 

Mr. Hart held up his hand and smiled dep- 
reciatingly. 

“I think I have done you a service, young 
sir,” he said. “I saw a centipede crawling in 
your hair on to your face as you were lying 
asleep, and I plucked it away. That is all. I 
was once stung in the arm by one, and was dis- 
abled for three months, and I fancied you might 
not relish a like experience. Your face is far 
too handsome to be spoiled in that way. If 
you will lift my handkerchief gently and care- 
fully — I did not care to seize the beast with na- 
ked fingers — you will see for yourself.” 

The young man had no need to lift the hand- 
kerchief. The long ugly thing was wriggling 
out of it ; half its body was exposed. 

“By Jove!” exclaimed the young man, seiz- 
ing a spade and cutting the creature in a dozen 
pieces, all of which immediately began to crawl 
away in different directions, north, south, east, 
and west, with the intention of commencing in- 
dependent existences. 


Y. 

nilLir’s RIDE FOR FLOWERS FOR MARGARET. 

“ Thank you,” said the young man to Mr. 
Hart. 

“ Thank you ,” returned Mr. Hart, dryly, “ for 
cutting up my pocket-handkerchief.” 

The young man laughed. “ Take mine,” he 
said, offering a red silk handkerchief to Mr. 
Hart. Red was a favorite color in the diggings 
in the matter of personal adornment. Red 
handkerchiefs, red scarfs and sashes, red tas- 
sels and bindings, were much coveted. 

Mr. Hart shook his head. “ No ; I will keep 
my own, as a remembrance.” He gazed admir- 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


17 


ingly at the young man, and with curiosity, for 
he saw that the young fellow was superior to 
the general run of gold-diggers. 

“ What are you looking at ?” asked the young 
man, merrily. 

“At an anomaly.” 

“That’s me.” 

“ That is you. What made a gold-digger of 
: you ?” 

The young man shrugged his shoulders. 
“A thirst for freedom and adventure. I was 
cramped up in the old country, so I thought I 
would come whhre there was room to move and 
breathe.” 

“You find it here.” 

“Rather!” He inflated his lungs, and ex- 
pelled the air with vigorous enjoyment. 

“What part of the old country do you hail 
fiom?” 

There was an unconscious tenderness in their 
tones as they spoke of their native land. 

“Devon — dear old Devon. Oh, for a tank- 
ard of real Devonshire cider!” 

Mr. Hart sighed. “Tou have home ties, 
then.” 

“Yes, I have an old father at home, who is 
old only in years. Let us drink to him.” He 
took a tin saucepan half filled with cold tea, 

! and handed it to Mr. Hart, who drank from it, 
i and returned it. “He is about your age, I 
| should say. Have you been long in the col- 
ony?” 

“ Seven year's.” 

“ Ah, I haven’t served my apprenticeship yet. 
Now, what brought you over these hills to-day ?” 

Mr. Hart stammered and hesitated ; no man 
on the gold-fields liked to confess that he had 
been wasting hours and days in the wild hope 
of discovering a golden reef, simply by wander- 
ing about and chipping up stones, although ev- 
ery man did it at some time or other, in secret. 
However, Mr. Hart blurted out the truth. 

“Well,” said the young man, “ that’s the way 
I and my mate discovered this reef. We found 
a thin vein, with gold in it, cropping out on the 
surface, and we followed it down until we came 
to another vein about two feet thick, and this 
we are working now. We’re down a hundred 
and two feet. You see we have about twenty 
tons of quartz up now ; it will go about twelve 
ounces to the ton, I should say. But we’re 
stuck for a machine to crush it.” 

“There’s one being put up in Iron-bark 
Gully.” 

“ Yes ; that’s nine miles off,” said the young 
man, fretfully ; “how are we to |et the stone 
to the machine over the ranges, unless we car- 
ry it on our backs ? A nice job that would be, 
and would cost as much as the stone’s worth !” 

“ When Mahomet found that the mountain 
wouldn’t come to him — ” Mr. Hart said, and 
paused. 

“By Jove !” exclaimed the young quartz 
miner, “you’re a gentleman. It does one good 
to talk to a man who can talk. Well, then Ma- 
homet went to the mountain. That is to say, 

2 


as we can’t take the stone to a machine, we 
must bring a machine to the stone. But that 
would cost monev, and we’re on our beam- 
ends.” 

Many a gold -miner has been in the same 
strait — with wealth at his feet, staring him in 
the face, and no money in his pocket — a rich 
beggar. 

Mr. Hart considered. Should he offer his 
savings for a share in the claim ? He had a 
hundred and twenty pounds in the corner of his 
trunk. The chance seemed a good one. He 
made the offer. The young man laughed at him. 

“We should want twenty times as much,” 
he said. 

“I shall mark out a claim for myself, then,” 
said Mr. Hart. 

“All right, mate ; but you’ll have to go a 
mile away for it. The reef is pegged, north 
and south, for quite that distance.” 

This was true ; Mr. Hart gave up the idea. 
He looked at the sun, and saw that if he wish- 
ed to get back to the theatre in time for the 
performance he must start at once. He bade 
the young man good-day. 

“ What’s your hurry ?” 

Mr. Hart explained. 

“By Jove!” cried the young man, his face 
flushing scarlet. “I thought I recognized 
your face. How I should like to go behind 
the scenes!” 

“ Come then ; I shall be glad to see you. 
This will admit you.” And he took a card 
from his pocket, and wrote some words in pen- 
cil upon it. “What name shall I say?” 

“Rowe.” 

“Here you are, then. ‘Admit Mr. Rowe by 
the stage-door. Hart’s Star Dramatic Compa- 
ny. — Signed, John Hart.’” 

“ You’re a brick. I’ll be there to-night.” 

He was as good as his word. What made 
him so eager was that he had been to the thea- 
tre three times, and had fallen dead in love 
with the singing and dancing Chambermaid. ’ 
Such an opportunity to make her acquaintance 
was not to be thrown away. At eight o’clock 
he stood by the wings, as handsome as Apollo, 
as strong as Hercules. When he was intro- 
duced to the singing and dancing Chamber- 
maid he was as shy as a sensitive plant, and 
would have looked foolish but that his beard 
prevented him. The chambermaid, as good a 
girl as she was beautiful, saw the state of af- 
fairs at once, and knew, by feminine instinct, 
that she could twist him round her little fin- 
ger. Nevertheless, she fell in love with him'. 
Nature will not be denied, and he was a man 
to be fallen in love with. Her name was Mar- 
garet. His was Philip. 

After the performance John Hart and Phil- 
ip Rowe had a glass together. They spoke of 
the old countiy. 

“ I’ll give you a toast,” said Philip Rowe ; 
“ Here’s to the Silver Flagon.” * 

“ To the Silver Flagon,” responded John 
Hart. 


18 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


Philip Rowe drank another toast, but did 
not utter it : To Margaret. 

He went to the back of the stage on the 
following night, and many nights after that, 
and made friends with the company. All the 
men liked him ; he was free-hearted and free- 
handed. But the Leading Lady looked upon 
him with displeasure, for he paid her less court 
than her state demanded. It was incredible 
that a lady who enacted Pauline and Juliet 
and Lady Macbeth should be overlooked for a 
chitling who played simple chambermaids, and 
could dance a little. But then Philip Rowe 
was blind — which was not a valid excuse for 
him. The Leading Lady would have been 
well content to receive the attentions of so 
handsome a young man, who was evidently a 
gentleman, and she snubbed Margaret one 
night, and was spiteful to her, because of her 
good fortune. Rowe, going behind the scenes, 
found his Margaret in tears, in a convenient 
corner. She had a spare half- hour, and he 
coaxed her to tell him the cause of her distress. 

“Never mind, Margaret,” he said tenderly. 
“Don’t cry.” 

She looked up shyly at this. It was the 
first time he had called her by her Christian 
name. If brevity is the soul of wit, it is also 
frequently the soul of love. Margaret was 
comforted. 

When Philip Rowe came face to face with 
the Leading Lady, he glared at her. She 
glared at him in return. He felt awkward, 
and hung down his head. Her glare was more 
potent than his ; she had to glare often on the 
stage, and was an adept at it. Besides, her 
face was smooth ; his was hairy. 

Margaret coaxed him to do something that 
night ; she knew where and how to plant a 
dagger in her rival’s bosom. She whispered 
to him, and he ran out of the theatre in a glow 
of ecstatic delirium, for her pretty lips had al- 
most touched his ear. Her warm breath on 
his neck made him tremble. 

She had asked him to get a bouquet of flow- 
ers, to throw on to the stage to her in the last 
piece, in which both she and the Leading Lady 
appeared. Flowers have before now been used 
for purposes as sharp. 

But where to get the flowers? A bouquet 
of flowers was unheard of in Silver Creek town- 
ship. Where to get them ? Where ? 

Could Love not grow them ? 

Where to get them ? Ah, he knew ! There 
was a garden six miles away, on the main road 
to the metropolis. In less than two minutes 
he was in the saddle, galloping in that direc- 
tion, and right in front of him, all the way, 
shone Margaret’s face and Margaret’s eyes and 
hair. No will-o’-the-wisp was ever more al- 
luring. Margaret lurked in the bushes, glided 
among the trees, shone in the open spaces, and 
Philip’s heart beat fast and joyously. The six 
miles of bush road, so soft and pleasant to the 
horse’s feet, were soon traversed, and there was 
the garden with a few — not many — flowers in 


it. Philip Rowe leaped off his horse. A wom- 
an came to the door. 

“Here, Jim!” she cried, to her husband, 
running into the house, thinking that a bush- 
ranger (. Anglice , highwayman) was paying them 
a visit. 

Jim appeared, with a gun in his hand. 

“Now, then?” he demanded, nothing daunt- 
ed. 

“ Oh, it’s all right, mate,” said Philip ; and 
in a few moments he explained the motive of 
his visit. 

“About a dozen flowers done up in a bunch 
are all I want. This for them.” He display- 
ed two pieces of rich quartz, in which there 
were probably two ounces of gold. 

Jim was agreeable, coveting the specimen ; 
his wife was not, loving her flowers. But when 
Philip pleaded, and told his story, she relented. 

“Oh, if it’s for that!” she said, and took 
a good look at Philip, and thought that the 
woman was to be envied who had won so fine 
a young fellow. 

While she cut the flowers the two men had 
a nip of brandy each, which Philip paid for. 
The place really was a sly grog-shop. 

Soon Philip was galloping back to Silver 
Creek township triumphantly. He arrived in 
time, and paid for admission into the body of 
the theatre, hiding the flowers in the breast of 
his dandy serge shirt. He was a bit of a dan- 
dy in his way, and especially so when he ex- 
pected to see Margaret. He followed her in- 
structions to the letter; she had told him at 
what point to throw the flowers, and plump at 
her feet they fell, at the precise moment she 
desired. The audience stared at first at the 
unusual compliment, and then applauded loud- 
ly. The Leading Lady turned pale, and clutch- 
ed at her bosom tragically. The dagger had 
been deftly planted, and she felt the smart — as 
only a woman would feel it. Margaret placed 
the flowers in the bosom of her dress, and sent 
a look straight into the eyes of Philip, which 
made every nerve in his body tingle. 

o 

VI. 

ROMEO AND JULIET. 

The Leading Lady was fond of money, and 
the theatre was doing so well that her divi- 
dend every week was a very handsome one, 
three times as much as she could expect to 
get elsewhere ; but what woman is prudent 
when her vanity is hurt? A man with a large 
bump of caution occasionally hangs back, and 
calculates consequences. A woman never 
does. The Leading Lady, in a towering pas- 
sion, confronted Mr. Hart, the manager, at the 
end of the performance. 

“Here comes a tragedy,” thought he, as he 
looked into her wrathful eves. 

“I leave the company!” she said, abruptly, 
with heaving bosom. 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


19 


“ My dear lady !” remonstrated the manager. 

“To-morrow. I shall take a place in the 
coach that starts at eight o’clock.” 

She knew well enough what the result would 
be if she left ; the company would collapse. A 
man might he spared, and his place filled, or 
his parts doubled, but the loss of a woman 
would inflict irreparable injury upon the pros- 
pects of the company. Mr. Hart knew this 
also. 

* “You don’t forget,” he said, gravely, “that 
we have your signature, and that if you leave 
we can make you pay heavy damages.” 

“That for my signature! that for your 
heavy damages!” Each time she snapped a 
disdainful finger. 

“ My dear lady,” he said, in a soothing tone, 
“you are excited, you are overstrained. We 
have taxed you a little hardly. We’ll play 
light pieces for a night or two, and give you a 
rest.” 

“You’ll play no light pieces tt> give me a 
rest ! Play light pieces, and give her the op- 
portunity of taking leading characters ! The 
shameless hussy ! Not if I know it ! ” 

Mr. Hart began to understand. This collo- 
quy was taking place on the stage ; the thea- 
tre was clear, the curtain was up. Down the 
stairs which led to the ladies’ dressing-room 
tripped Margaret, fresh, and bright, and hap- 
py, with her bunch of flowers in her hand. 

“Good-night, Mr. Hart,” she cried, gayly. 

In the shadow of the door which led on to 
the stage a man was waiting for her — Philip. 
They walked out, side by side, chatting confi- 
dentially. The Leading Lady saw this, and 
her anger rose higher; but still it was bitter 
gall to her to reflect that if she went away, the 
field would be clear for her rival. 

Mr. Hart felt that he was on the horns of a 
difficulty ; he could spare neither one nor the 
other of the ladies. 

“You’re the manager,” said the Leading 
Lady, “and you ought long ago to have put 
down such shameless goings-on. We shall be 
the talk of the town ; but I’ll not be implica- 
ted in it. My name mustn’t be used lightly.” 
The manager smiled grimly. “I leave to- 
morrow. Understand that.” 

“I decline to understand it. You will ful- 
fill your engagement, and if it is necessary for 
me to take steps to prevent your departure, I 
must do so for the sake of others. I will swear 
a declaration against you.” 

He was aware that he was talking the most 
arrant nonsense, but he relied on the feminine 
mind to assist him with its fears, and with its 
ignorance of legal subtleties. 

“I shall be sorry to do so against a lady 
whom I esteem and respect so much, and of 
whose talents I have so high an opinion, but no 
other course will be open to me. Why, my 
dear lady,” he said, cunningly, “you know as 
well as I do that we are nothing without you — 
that you are the soul of the company — that 
there is not your equal in the colony.” 


The Leading Lady began to soften beneath 
the influence of such gross flattery, but it would 
not do to give way at once. 

“ I will not stop to be insulted.” 

“ No one shall insult you.” 

“ But some one has, and she shall not do so 
again — no, not if you swear a million declara- 
tions !” 

“ Come, now, tell me all about it,” said the 
manager, taking her arm, and walking slowly 
with her up and down the stage. “By-the- 
way, Mr. Simpson, the Warden of Moonlight 
Flat, said last night, when you were playing 
Ophelia — you know him ; he was in the theatre 
with the Commissioner of the Gold-fields and 
the Resident Magistrate — ” 

“ Yes, yes,” said the Leading Lady, impa- 
tiently, “what did he say?” 

“That your Ophelia was equal to any thing 
he had seen in London on the stage, and that 
he believed you would create a sensation there. 
He is first cousin to the Earl of Badmington, 
you know. I thought you would like to hear 
it.” 

He glanced slyly at the Leading Lady, whose 
head was nodding gently up and down, in sweet 
contentment. 

“And now, my dear lady, tell me your griev- 
ance.” 

“ It’s yours as well as mine, but if you like 
to stand it, I sha’n’t. If bouquets of flowers are 
to be thrown on the stage, they must be thrown 
to me — do you understand, sir ? to me, as the 
leading lady, and as the star of the company.” 

It happened that Mr. Hart had been busy 
elsewhere during the episode that had very near- 
ly brought the ship to wreck, and had heard 
nothing of it. He asked the Leading Lady for 
an, explanation, which was given to him. 

“And if you don’t stop these shameful go- 
ings-on,” were the concluding words of her ex- 
planation, “ I give you fair warning, I will not 
stay with you ; I have a character to lose, thank 
God !” 

Which was to be construed in so many queer 
ways, that for the life of him Mr. Hart could 
not help smiling. 

“ Well, well, my dear creature, I will see to 
it. And no flowers shall be thrown — by Mr. 
Philip Rowe, at all events — to any one on the 
stage but you.” 

This difficulty being smoothed over, he went 
in search of Philip Rowe, and found him lean- 
ing against a fence, outside the hotel, gazing 
up at a light in a bedroom window on the first 
floor. 

“Rehearsing Romeo and Juliet?” asked 
Mr. Hart kindly, taking the young man’s arm. 

Philip blushed, and stammered some unin- 
telligible words. 

“ That is her window, Philip,” said Mr. Hart. 
“ so you will not make the same ridiculous mis- 
take as I did for a fortnight together, gazing 
up every night at the light in my lady’s bed- 
room, and working myself into a state of gush- 
ing sentimentalism over the slender waist and 


20 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


the graceful turn of the head I saw shadowed 
on the blind, until I discovered that I had been 
watching the bedroom window of a black foot- 
man.” 

This was a piece of pure invention on the 
part of Mr. Hart. 

Philip, having nothing to say in reply, shift- 
ed one foot over another restlessly. If he 
could have retired with a good face, he would 
have done so, but Mr. Hart had hold of his arm. 
Mr. Hart continued : 

“Putting sentiment aside, a nice scrape you 
were almost getting me into to-night. Ah, you 
may stare, but I should like to know what you 
mean by throwing flowers to my singing cham- 
bermaid — who is not by any means clever, let 
me tell you, and will never make her fortune 
on the stage — when we have in our company 
a lady who plays leading characters, and who 
knows every line of Juliet’s part?” 

“Ho, ho!” laughed Philip; “Juliet was a 
girl of sixteen or seventeen, and your leading 
lady is forty.” 

“Woe for your life if you said so in her 
presence!” exclaimed Mr. Hart, with a quiet 
chuckle; “it would not be worth a moment’s 
purchase. Forty, sir ! and what if she is forty 
— which she is not by five years ? she is the 
only woman that can play J uliet to your Ro- 
meo.” • 

“ Hush !” whispered Philip. “ She is open- 
ing the window.” 

Margaret, alone, in her white dress, was in- 
deed opening the window. She did not know 
— not she — that her lover w r as below, nor that 
her form could be seen, for she had extinguish- 
ed the light in the room ; her shadow might be 
discerned, but what is there in a shadow? She 
sat down by the window, and rested her head 
on her arm. The graceful outlines of her arm 
and neck and bended head were clearly visible, 
and the lover feasted his eyes upon them. She 
held in her hand the flowers which Philip had 
thrown her ! Her lips were upon the tender 
leaves — sw r eets to the sweet. He saw her kiss 
the flowers, and his soul thrilled with rapture. 
The night was beautifully still ; not a sound 
was stirring ; and as far as eye could see the 
white tents of the diggers -were gleaming. So 
Margaret sat and mused, and Philip looked on 
and dreamed. Here, in the new w r orld, but yes- 
terday a savage waste, the old, old story was be- 
ing enacted with as much freshness as though 
the world were but just created. What won- 
der? Because the sun has risen a few mill- 
ions of times, is the dew on the leaves less 
sweet and pure in the early morning’s light 
than on that wondrous day when Adam aw r oke 
and found Eve by his side ? 

So Margaret sat and mused, and Philip look- 
ed on and dreamed ; and I think that Margaret 
peeped between the lattice-work of her fingers, 
and saw with her cunning eyes that her lover 
was there, worshiping her. 

How long they would have thus remained, 
Heaven only knows. Mr. Hart gave them at 


least twenty minutes, and then touched Philip’s 
arm. Philip started, and Margaret at the win- 
dow started also, and with a swift happy glance 
outward, and with a wave of the pretty hand 
and arm, closed the window. Philip was stand- 
ing in the light, and Mr. Hart, like a kind and 
careful friend, had crept backward in the shade ; 
so that Margaret, when she cast that straight 
swift glance in her lover’s direction, saw only 
him. Surely as the hand — love’s white flag of 
recognition — waved toward him, it had touch- 
ed her lips first, and she had sent a kiss into 
the air — which he received in his heart. It 
stirred tender chords there, and through his 
veins crept love’s fever, which turns dross into 
gold, and makes a heaven of earth. 

o 

VII. 

“All, PHILIP, MY SON! I ALSO HAVE A GIRL 
WHOM I LOVE.” 

Then said Philip, as he and Mr. Hart moved 
slowly away — then said Philip, as though but. a 
moment had passed since his companion last 
spoke, * 

“ Her name is Margaret, not Juliet. I have 
no need to play Romeo to Margaret. Marga- 
ret!” he whispered to himself, finding a subtle 
charm in the name ; “ My Margaret !” and then 
aloud, “Has your Leading Lady ever played 
su'ch a character ?” 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Hart, without any direct 
meaning, “in Faust." 

Philip’s face flushed scarlet, not at the words, 
but at the tone, which was sad and significant, 
without the speaker intending it to be so. 

“ I know you to be a gentleman — ’’pursued 
Mr. Hart. 

“I thought you to be one,” interrupted Phil- 
ip, hotly. 

“I hope you will see no reason to change 
your opinion,” said Mr. Hart. 

“I see a reason already.” 

“Let me hear it,” asked Mr. Hart, secretly 
pleased at the young man’s ill-humor. 

“ You associated my Margaret’s name — ” 

“Your Margaret!” exclaimed Mr. Hart. 
“ My Margaret, if you please.” . 

“ Mine !” cried Philip, in a loud voice. 

“ Mine ! ” echoed Mr. Hart, in a calmer tone. 

“Call her down and ask her,” demanded 
Philip in his rashness, without considering ; 
and for the life of him, Mr. Hart could not help 
laughing long and heartily. 

“ Oh, that you were tw r enty years younger !” 
said Philip. 

“ Oh, that I were !” exclaimed Mr. Hart, with 
grave humor. “ Then you would really have 
cause for uneasiness when you hear me call her 
mine.” 

“How da you make her yours ?” 

“ I stand to her in the light of a father,” re- 
plied Mr. Hart more seriously. “ When I per- 
suaded her mother in town to let her accom- 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


21 


pany us, I promised that I would look after her 
and protect her. Therefore she is mine, be- 
cause I am her father.” 

“And without any ‘therefore,’” responded 
Philip, “ she is mine, because I am her lover.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Hart, with a bright smile, 
“ here is a case to be settled, then. But if ev- 
ery pretty girl was her lover’s, then one might 
belong to fifty, or more, for there are hearts 
enough. Why, do you know how many men 
in Silver Creek might call your Margaret theirs 
by the same right as that by which you claim 
her!” 

“No,” said Philip, a little sulkily, “I don’t 
know.” 

“ Then I’ll tell you. To my certain knowl- 
edge, sixty-nine ; to my almost as certain con- 
j viction, some five hundred. She had forty-two 
! offers of marriage the first week, and has had 
twenty-seven since. Come now, divide her be- 
; tween the sixty-nine lovers who have declared 
themselves ; what part of her is yours ?” 

“ You talk nonsense,” said Philip, roughly. 

“Well, suppose you talk sense,” said Mr. 
Hart, blandly. 

“ It’s hardly believable,” cried Philip, clench- 
| ing his fist. “Sixty-nine offers of marriage! 
She never told me, and I’m her lover.” 

“She has told me, and I’m only her father.” 

“By proxy,” corrected Philip. 

“ Well, by proxy.” 

“Why should she tell you and not me?” 
asked Philip, more sulkily still. 

“Because, my dear Philip,” said Mr. Hart, 
laying his hand kindly on the young man’s 
arm, “ up to the present, as I have said, she is 
j mine, and not yours ; and because she has a 
frank open nature, and must confide in some 
one. As I come first, she confides in me. She 
has given me all the letters to read, and a rare 
collection they are. If they were printed, they 
would be a curiosity.” 

“ I should like to see them, and the names 
at the bottom of them.” 

“ So that you might fight all the writers for 
falling in love, as you have done! Well, you 
I would have enough to do, for you would have 
to fight according to the fashion of different 
countries. I have made an analysis, my dear 
Philip. Seven Frenchmen, four Germans, one 
Spaniard, three Americans, fifty-three English- 
men, Irishmen, and Scotchmen, and one Chi- 
naman, have offered marriage to — I will say — 
our Margaret.” 

“A Chinaman! Good’heavens ! such a crea- 
ture to raise his eyes to my Margaret ! Tell 
me, at least, his name, that I may cut his pigtail 
from his dirty crown.” 

“There’s an Ah in it, and a Sen in it, and a 
Ping in it ; and i£ you can find him out by those 
signs, you are very welcome. But why should 
a Chinaman not love? * Hath he not eyes, 
hands, organs, dimensions, senses,, affections, 
passions? His letter is the greatest curiosity 
of the lot, and he has evidently educated him- 
self in the English language. I know his pro- 


posal by heart. Here it is? ‘You welly good 
English girl; me welly good Chinaman. You 
mally me, welly good match. Roast pig and 
m’landy (brandy) for dinner*every day. M’len- 
ty gold — make m’lenty more. Me take you to 
my country, by -bye. Chinaman welly good 
man.’ Then comes the Ah and the Sen and 
the Ping. But let us be serious, although this 
is true enough that I have told you — truth with 
a comical side to it. You were angry with me 
a little while ago.” 

“Yes, for associating my Margaret’s name 
with mine in the character of Faust.” 

“I had no distinct intention in my mind, 
Philip ; the conversation happened to take that 
turn. It would pain me very much to have 
cause to think of you in that way. But Mar- 
garet is a simple good girl, and it is my duty 
to look after her. I never knew till to-night 
that you were paying marked attention to her.” 

“Who’ told you?” 

“Our Leading Lady.” 

Philip Rowe smiled : he had his vanities. 

“ Oh, indeed !” he said, with assumed care- 
lessness. 

“And that will bring me back presently to 
a subject I mentioned when I surprised you to- 
night. First, however, there is another thing 
to be settled. You must cease your'attentions 
to Margaret.” 

“ Not if I know it !” said Philip, with a defi- 
ant shake of his head. “I mean to marry her. 
If you throw any obstacles in the way I’ll run 
away with her to-morrow, in spite of your 
teeth.” He laughed confidently; he knew his 
power. 

“But you are a gentleman,” remonstrated 
Mr. Hart. 

“And she is a lady,” quoth Philip. 

If Love’s guild could give titles, a .peasant 
would rank higher than a duchess. Not that 
there was any thing common about Margaret. 
She was born of humble parents, it is true ; but 
she was a good girl, and that is enough for any 
man. 

It was enough for Mr. Hart. He gazed at 
Philip in frank and honest admiration ; but he 
determined to apply a test. He was not a sus- 
picious man, but he had a duty to perform. 

“Suppose there is an obstacle already in the 
way,” he said, looking Philip steadily in the 
face ; “ suppose she is already married.” 

Philip staggered, and the blood deserted his 
face. 

“Good God!” he cried. “Then she has 
been playing me false !”' 

Mr. Hart wished he had not applied the 
test ; he was satisfied of Philip’s sincerity. 

“Not so fast!” he cried, in a cheery tone; 
“not so fast! I only said ‘suppose;’ I didn’t 
say it was so. How you young hot spirits 
jump at conclusions !” 

But it was a few minutes before Philip re- 
covered himself. 

“ You frightened me,” he said, with a feeble 
smile. “ Then it is not true? If I had con- 


22 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


sidered a moment, I should have known ; for 
if truth and innocence have a home in this 
world, they have it in Margaret’s breast. But 
you came upon me suddenly.” 

Mr. Hart thought, “Ah, youth, youth, what 
a painter you are !” And said aloud, ‘‘Here 
is my hand ; knowing that you mean honorably 
by Margaret, I give my consent to your seeing 
her as usual.” 

“I’ll marry her to-morrow,” said Philip, 
taking the hand offered him. 

“Softly, softly; there are conditions.” 

“I’ll have no conditions !” shouted Philip, 
impetuously. 

“You’ll have this and you’ll have that,” said 
Mr. Hart, in a tone of’gentle sarcasm. “ You 
won’t have this, and you won’t have that. Very 
well, then. I wish you good-night.” And he 
turned away. 

“What!” cried Philip, turning after him; 
“desert me when I want you to be my friend !” 

The old man’s heart warmed to the young 
fellow; he admired every thing in him— his 
hot blood, his impetuosity, his obstinacy, his 
generous imperiousness. 

“I am your friend,” said Mr. Hart, “and I 
should like to continue to be if you will let 
me. But when a man says of something that 
is mine, as Margaret is — ah, shake your head ! 
it doesn’t affect me ! — when a man says of some- 
thing that is mine, and that he wants to be his, 
that he’ll have no conditions, he compels me to 
act in self-defense. Attend to me, young sir. 
Be reasonable, or to-morrow I take Margaret 
back to her mother in town, a hundred and 
forty miles away, and you shall not speak an- 
other word to her, as sure as my name’s — not 
Hart.” 

“Oh, your name’s not Hart! Well, that 
doesn’t matter— .you’re a man in a thousand. 
In a thousand ! in ten thousand. I’m glad 
you’re not younger, or you might prove dan- 
gerous.” Mr. Hart took off his cap and bowed 
lowly at this compliment. “ You’ll not let me 
speak to her, will you not ? I’ll borrow a speak- 
ing-trumpet, and shout to her that you are 
parting us forever. But there! give me your 
hand again. I’m not frightened of you. I am 
in such spirits that I must do something des- 
perate. As you value your life, give me a 
back.” 

With the readiness of a boy, Mr. Hart stoop- 
ed and rested his hands on his knees. Philip 
took a run backward, then darted forward like 
a deer, and lightly touching the stooping man’s 
back, flew over him like a bird. Then stooped 
himself, and folded his arms ; and old as Mr. 
Hart was, he took the leap. 

After that they had a hearty laugh together. 

“By Jove !” exclaimed Philip, “you are as 
young as I am, and yet I should say you are 
over sixty.” 

“I am,” said Mr. Hart, proudly, straighten- 
ing his back. 

“ I don’t mind giving way a little to such a 
man. Name your conditions.” 


“You want to marry Margaret?” 

“I do — to-morrow.” 

“Nonsense. You want to marry her.” 

“ I do — I will ; stop me who can !” 

“ She has a mother.” 

“God bless her, and all belonging to her!” 

“ Bravo— a good mother, mind.” 

“All that belongs to Margaret must be good.” 

“ Her mother must be consulted.” 

Philip scratched his head. “Must?” he 
asked dubiously. 

“Must.” 

“ How is that to be done?” 

“By letter.” 

Philip counted rapidly on his fingers. 

“ Why, we shall have to wait a week !” 

“For the consent. Perhaps she’ll not give 
it.” 

“ It will be all the same. We’ll marry with- 
out it.” 

“ But you’ll have to wait longer than a week, 
Philip. You’ll have to wait until our three 
months’ engagement at the theatre is at an 
end.” 

“ Impossible.” 

“It must and shall be. Why, without Mar- 
garet we are nothing.” 

“I know it,” chuckled Philip. 

“She is the soul of the company.” The 
wily old fellow was using the very words he 
had used to the Leading Lady, and he thought 
nothing of contradicting what he had said a few 
minutes before, when he declared that Marga- 
ret was not clever, and would not make her for- 
tune on the stage. “Do you hear me? She 
is the soul of the company.” 

“I know it,” chuckled Philip again. 

“ Well, then, do you think I am going to let 
you ruin our prospects, and rob us, as you pro- 
pose doing?” 

“ Gently, gently there !” 

“It is the truth that I am speaking, and you 
know it ; you’ve said so yourself. Margaret 
is the soulof the company — she is our greatest 
draw. If she goes without my being able to 
get another girl as pretty in her place — ” 

“You can’t do that ; I defy you.” 

“Hold your tongue, liot-head! — without 
our getting another girl nearly as pretty in Jier 
place — ” 

“That’s better,” interrupted the incorrigible 
Philip ; “ but you’ll have a rare hunt even for 
such a one. They don’t grow on gooseberry 
bushes.” 

“Our business is as good as ruined without 
her, or some one in her place ; and do you sup- 
pose I’ll stand quietly by, and see that done? 
Besides, think of the money Margaret herself 
is saving — 

“ That for the money!” said Philip, with a 
snap of his fingers. “ Money-making's a man’s 
business, not a woman’s.” 

“That’s true. But leaving Margaret out of 
the question, there are persons in our company 
the happiness of whose life hangs upon their 
being able to save a certain amount of money 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


within a certain time. Not only their happi- 
ness, but the happiness of helpless ones who are 
dearer to them than their heart’s blood, depend 
upon this.” 

“By Jove! you speak strongly. Mention 
one of them.” 

“One of them stands before you now.” 

Philip turned and looked Mr. Hart straight 
in the face. Tears were gathering in the old 
man’s eyes, and the young man turned away 
again, so that he should not see them. 

“Forgive me, mate,” he said softly, “I’m 
wrapped up in my own happiness, and I’m for- 
getful of the feelings of others.” 

“Ah, Philip, my son!” There was so ten- 
der an accent in the old man’s tone, that the 
tears rose to Philip’s eyes as well. “I also 
have a girl whom I love. See here, my dear 
boy. This is my daughter. She is at home 
in England, and I am here sixteen thousand 
miles away.” 

He had taken the picture of his darling from 
his pocket, and he now handed it to Philip. 
The young man looked at it in the clear moon- 
light. A round fresh face, open mouth with 
rosy lips, bright ingenuous eyes, fair curls 
around her white forehead. She was standing 
within an ivy porch, and one little hand was 
raised as though she were listening. 

“It was taken seven years ago,” said Mr. 
Hart ; “ she was twelve years old then.” 

“She is beautiful, beautiful!” exclaimed 
Philip, enthusiastically. “And you haven’t seen 
her since then ?” 

“No — and my old heart aches for a sight of 
her. This money that I am earning will take 
me to her.” 

“By Jove ! and I was going to step in your 
way ! Brute that I was ! Margaret shall stop. 
I’ll wait till the end of the time. I can see her 
every night ; and I can build a wooden house 
for her in the mean time. God bless you, old 
boy! Give me your hand again. Next to my 
own father, you are the man I love and respect 
the most.” 

o 

VIII. 

“god bless every body.” 

“But I haven’t finished yet,” said Mr. 
Hart, after a short pause. “ I’ve another con- 
dition.” 

“Another!” exclaimed Philip, with an incli- 
nation to turn ill-humored. “ You are insatia- 
ble ! And how many more after that, pray ?” 

“ None.” 

“ That’s a mercy. Out with your last condi- 
tion — which I’ll not comply with.” 

“ Which you will comply with. Where did 
you get those flowers from ?” 

“Where did I get them from? I rode a 
dozen miles for them — and I’d ride a thousand 
if she bade me.” 

“ Or fly to the moon, or swim, or dive in the 
fire, or ride on the clouds, no doubt!” 


23 

“Yes, if she wanted me to. She has but to 
speak.” 

“Quite right,” said Mr. Hart, turning his 
face from Philip, so that the smile on his lips 
should not be seen; “but that’s not my con- 
cern. This is. Mind what I say, sir. I'll 
have no more flowers thrown to my singing 
Chambermaid.” 

“ Oh,” retorted Philip, “ now it’s you’ll not 
have this, and you’ll not have that! Very 
well, then. I wish you good-niglit.” 

And off he walked, taking huge strides pur- 
posely, and stretching his legs to their utmost. 

“No, no, Philip!” cried Mr. Hart, running 
after Philip, and laughing heartily at the wit 
of the retort. “No, no; I’m serious.” 

“And so am I,” said Philip,- stopping so that 
Mr. Hart might come up to him. “No more 
flowers, eh ? Why, I’ll smother her with them 
every night. I’ll compel you to engage some 
one to carry them off the stage. No more 
flowers? I’ll chow you ! Why, f’m going to 
scour the country for flowers, and I shall set 
seeds all round my tent.” 

“If you’ll wait for the flowers to grow, I 
shall be satisfied. You can’t make them come 
up by blowing on them with your hot words 
and hot breath. But seriously, Philip, there 
must be no more flower-throwing.” 

Briefly he explained the reason why, and 
the upshot of it all was that Philip promised. 
Then Mr. Hart said that Philip had better re- 
turn with him to the Rose, Shamrock, and This- 
tle Hotel ; it was too late for him to walk back 
to his reef. 

“I can give you a shake-down in my bed- 
room,” said Mr. Hart. 

“All right!” said Philip, and thought with 
ecstasy, “I shall be near Margaret; I shall 
sleep under the same roof as Margaret.” 

“ Have you any thing to drink ?” asked Phil- 
ip, when they were in Mr. Hart’s room. 

Mr. Hart wanted Philip to sleep in his bed, 
which was but a stretcher, barely wide enough 
for one, but Philip w r ould not hear of it; so 
they got a straw mattress, and laid it on the 
floor, and Philip tossed off his clothes, and 
stretched himself upon his hard bed (and slept 
upon it afterward as though it were eider-down), 
in a state of complete satisfaction with himself 
and every one in the world. It was while lie 
was lying like this, and while Mr. Hart, more 
methodical than his companion, was slowly un- 
dressing himself, that Philip had asked if he 
had any thing to drink. 

“I’ll get something,” said Mr. Hart, and left 
the room, and returned with a bottle and glasses. 

While he was gone, Philip looked about him, 
and soon discovered that his Margaret’s bed- 
room was immediately above him. He gazed 
at the ceiling with rapture, and sent kisses 
thitherward. A single partition parted him 
from his sweetheart. He fancied that he could 
hear her soft breathing. The same roof cover- 
ed them. It was as yet his nearest approach 
to heaven. 


24 : 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


.“Here’s to Margaret,” said Philip, holding 
up his glass. 

“To Margaret,” responded Mr. Hart, “and 
happiness to you both.” 

“Another toast,” said Philip: “To my old 
dad and the dear old Silver Flagon.” 

They drank the toast. 

“ What is the Silver Flagon ?” asked Mr. 
Hart. 

“One of these days perhaps I’ll tell you,” 
replied Philip. 

But Philip never told him. One of these 
days Mr. Hart found out for himself. 

The light was put out, and Mr. Hart knelt 
by a corner of his stretcher, and prayed for a 
few minutes. He was praying for his daughter. 
Philip saw the shadow of the kneeling man ; it 
made him very tender toward Mr. Hart. 

“ Heathen that I am !” he whispered to him- 
self. “ I haven’t knelt at my bedside for many 
a long moyth.” Then he prayed in silence, 
without getting out of bed. 

“Are you comfortable, Philip?” asked Mr. 
Hart presently. 

“ I am very happy,” replied Philip. “ Good- 
night — God bless you.” 

“And you, my boy. Good-nighti” 

Philip thought, “ I am glad my Margaret has 
had such a protector. God bless every body !” 
The next moment he was asleep. 

He was up an hour after the sun, and off 
to his reef. Things were looking well there. 
Mr. Hart had spoken to the proprietor of the 
Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, whose name, by 
the way, as something has to be said concern- 
ing him, it may be as well to mention. You 
will have heard it before— it was Smith. Mr. 
Hart had spoken to Mr. Smith about Philip’s 
reef, saying what a pity it was that there was 
no crushing-machine near such rich stone, and 
what a fortune a man might make who had 
money and enterprise enough to erect one. 
Mr. Smith had both. Four years ago he was 
a bricklayer in the old country, and one day, 
for want of something better to do — he was out 
'of work at the time — he emigrated. This is a 
literal fact. He arose early in the morning, 
with no intention of going away; strolled to the 
London Docks, and saw a ship making ready to 
start ; was told that it would sail for Gravesend 
in the afternoon ; inquired the price of a steer- 
age passage, and found that he had just mon- 
ey enough in his pocket, and a trifle over, the 
scrapings and savings of ten years’ bricklaying ; 
had a chat with an enthusiast, who painted Aus- 
tralia in the colors of the rainbow, and then 
painted England in ditch-colors. Mr. Smith 
considered. What was the use of grinding 
one’s life away in such a country as England ? 
What was there to look forward to, to hope for, 

' to work for? A poor man’s grave. Born a 
bricklayer, died a bricklayer; that might be 
his epitaph, if he left money enough to pay for 
one. 

“I should like to go with you,” said Smith. 

“Come, then,” said the enthusiast. 


“I’m afraid there’s not time,” said Smith; 
“there’s my old mother. I couldn’t leave 
without saying good-bye to her.” 

“What’s your name?” asked the enthusiast. 

“ Smith,” replied Smith. 

The enthusiast gave a start, and uttered an 
exclamation. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Smith. 

“ Nothing,” said the enthusiast ; “only I was 
thinking that I should like you to come.” 

“But how is it to be managed?” inquired 
Smith, glancing at the name of the vessel, with 
his mouth watering. It was a nine hundred 
ton ship, called The Gold Packet. “But how 
is it to be managed ? A man that I know emi- 
grated a year ago, and he had to buy bedding, 
and tin cups, and soap and towels, and I don’t 
know what all.” 

“I’ll manage it for you,” said the enthusi- 
ast. “You go home and say good-bye to your 
mother. Be back here at one o’clock. By 
that time I’ll have your passage -ticket, and 
your berth, and every thibg ready for you. 
What do you say ?” 

“ What do I say ? There’s my hand upon it, 
and thank you. I’ll do it ;” and with quicken- 
ed pulses he hastened home, kissed the amazed 
old woman, promised to send her plenty of 
money from Australia and to make a lady of 
her in five years, and was back to The Gold 
Packet at one o’clock. 

“You’re a man of mettle,” said the enthu- 
siast; “you’re just the sort for the gold-dig- 
gings. You’ll make your fortune there as sure 
as eggs are eggs. Here’s your ticket. Come 
down stairs ; I’ll show you your berth and 
tilings.” 

“How much does it all come to?” asked 
Smith. 

The enthusiast penciled some figures on a 
piece of paper, and gave it to Smith, who look- 
ed at the items, and added them up. Every 
thing was correct ; he handed the enthusiast 
the money, and had exactly two shillings and 
fourpence left to conquer the new w'orld with. 
Smith went down stairs (to speak courteously 
of the descent) into the den where the steerage 
passengers were packed, and the enthusiast 
showed him his berth, his bedding, his tin 
cups, and other necessary paraphernalia. The 
enthusiast showed these things to Smith, but 
Smith could scarcely see them, the place -was 
so dark. Smith was not daunted because the 
place was dismal, and because it was filled with 
women crying, and children screaming, and men 
growling. • Smith’s soul rose to the occasion ; 
he had a spirit above a bricklayer’s : with his 
passage ticket in his hand, and two shillings 
and fourpence in his pocket, he felt himself a 
king. When he went on to the. deck, he did 
not see the enthusiast, but he did not miss him ; 
he was so interested in what was going on about 
him, the hurrying to and fro, the shouting, the 
singing of the sailors, the hauling of ropes. In 
an hour the ship was’off, winding its way through 
a very labyrinth of boats and ships and ropes. 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


25 


Then Smith glanced at the passage ticket. 
“Halloo !” he said, “they’ve made a mistake 
in my Christian name. I’m William Smith, 
not John.” (Let me mention here, briefly, that 
our Smith never set eyes again on the enthusi- 
ast, whose name also was Smith, prefixed by 
John. It was his passage ticket, indeed, that 
our Smith held in his hand. All the time he 
had been painting in the most glowing colors 
the splendid attractions of the gold-fields on 
the other side of the world, he had been filled 
with the most gloomy forebodings. His cour- 
age had failed him at the last moment, and 
seizing the opportunity which had so fortunate- 
ly presented itself of giving the new world an- 
other Smith instead of himself, he had sold his 
passage ticket and bedding and cooking uten- 
sils to the bricklayer, and after receiving the 
money for them, bade good-bye to The Gold 
Packet and all the fair promises it held out.) 
With his two shillings and fourpence in his 
pocket, William Smith passed through Port 
Philip Heads, and from that day Fortune smiled 
upon him. In a fortnight he was on the gold- 
fields ; in six months he was a speculator ; in 
twelve, he had saved a thousand pounds. And 
now he was proprietor of a fine hotel and a 
theatre, and had a dozen other irons in the 
fire, not one of which did he allow to grow 
cold. 

I think I shall be pardoned for this digres- 
sion. This story is of the mosaic kind, and al- 
though there are many strange bits in it — one 
somewhat weird, as will be seen — I hope none 
will be found incongruous, but that they will 
all fit in one with another, and form a complete 
whole. 

Mr. Hart, then, had spoken to William Smith 
about Philip’s golden reef, and what a chance 
there was for a crushing-machine. The same 
day William Smith walked to the reef, exam- 
ined the stone, went down the shaft, chipped 
here and there, putting two or three bits of gold 
and stone in his pocket, as treasure-trove, came 
up from the hole, strolled about the locality, 
Argus-eyed, and made up his mind. He spoke 
it to Philip and his mate. Said he : “ In three 
weeks I will have a machine erected here, with 
twelve heads of stampers, which shall be work- 
ing day and night, and which shall crush fifteen 
tons of quartz every twenty-four hours. You 
have raised, I should say, about a hundred and 
fifty tons of quartz You shall put half a doz- 
en men at work in your claim — I will provide 
the money for their wages — and in these three 
weeks you shall raise another hundred tons. I 
will do this on the following tbrms : You shall 
contract to give me the first two hundred tons 
of quartz to crush, and I will contract to crush 
it at the rate of three ounces of gold per ton.” 
(The shrewd speculator had seen clearly enough 
that there was plenty of gold in the stone to 
pay him, anjd leave a handsome margin ; in- 
deed, he calculated that the quartz already 
raised from the bowels of the earth, and lying 
on the surface of the claim, would yield not 


less than ten or twelve ounces to the ton.) 
“The next two hundred tons I will crush for 
two and a half ounces of gold per ton ; the 
next two hundred for two ounces per ton.” 
(Some men are born with a genius for figures : 
William Smith was one ; and he had already 
totted up in his mind that the crushing of these 
six hundred tons of quartz would bring him in 
no less than £6000, and that it could all be 
done in fifteen days. His £6000 would pay 
all the expenses of labor and the purchase and 
erection of the machine, which in little more 
than a fortnight after it was put up would stand 
him in nothing. There were many chances 
of this kind in the gold-fields for enterprising 
men.) “After that we can make new arrange- 
ments.” 

Philip and his mate jumped at the offer. 
Then practical William Smith, to their astonish- 
ment and admiration, told them that although 
he had been but a short time on the range — it 
could not have been more than three hours al- 
together — he had settled on the very spot where 
the machine was to be erected. He showed 
them the place. It was on the slope of a natu- 
ral basin, which, with a little labor, could be 
made into a splendid reservoir for the rain. 
Here the machine was to be erected ; here the 
dam was to be built ; here the sheds for the 
washing-out and retorting of the gold were to 
be put up. All was arranged. The only thing 
that would be wanted was water. “Pray for 
rain,” said William Smith ; and fancying that 
he saw in Philip’s face an intention to fall on 
his knees that instant, cried out, in a fright, 
“Not now! not now! In a fortnight, when 
the dam is ready.” So Philip deferred his 
prayers for two weeks. 

Now, it was manifestly impossible to get a 
crushing-machine from the capital of the col- 
ony in time. But William Smith,* when he 
made his offer, knew what he was about. He 
knew of a machine on a neighboring gold-field 
not many miles away, which had been - erected 
in a foolish spot, where it was practically use- 
less, for the quartz would not yield sufficient 
gold to’ pay expenses of labor. Those who had 
bought and erected the machine had done so on 
the credit of a small patch of gold which they 
had found, and which they thought would lead 
them to precious deposits. They found no 
more gold, or not sufficient to pay. They built 
castles in the air — which practical William 
Smith never did ; he always went upon solid 
ground, and seldom made a mistake. Before 
he was two days older he had bought the ma- 
chine for a quarter of its value, and fifty men 
were set to work on it, so that it was almost 
literally torn down. But he had an experi- 
enced man at the head of his workers, and ev- 
ery thing was done right. Fifty more men were 
working at the reservoir, and on the very day 
succeeding the scene which had taken place be- 
tween Philip and Mr. Hart, the first portion of 
the crushing- machine arrived on the ground. 
This kept Philip busy, and although lie was 


26 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


burning to get away to liis Margaret, he could 
not do so until the night. The first thing that 
he saw when he went behind the scenes was 
one of the flowers he had bought the night be- 
fore. He raised his eyes from the flower to 
Margaret’s face, for the flower was in her bo- 
som. 

“Ah !” he sighed, flushing with delight. Of 
such simple things are life’s sweetest pleasures 
born. 

The bunch of flowers had of course formed a 
fruitful subject of conversation among the mem- 
bers of the dramatic company, and of course 
Margaret was obliged to make a confidante of 
some one of her own sex. The Leading Lady 
was out of the question ; so the First Old Wom- 
an, the mother of the baby, received Margaret’s 
confidences, and being a good-hearted, unself- 
ish creature, and delighted at the opportuni- 
ty of indulging in a little bit'of matchmaking, 
she listened, and smiled, and congratulated the 
young girl. 

“To-morrow it is Saint Valentine’s day,” 
she sang. “You’ve come to Silver Creek for 
something. Here, my dear, nurse my baby, 
and get your hand in.” 

Which caused Margaret to blush furiously. 

“Oh,” cried Margaret, “but there’s been 
nothing said between us !” 

“Nothing, my dear!” exclaimed the First 
Old Woman, with a mischievous laugh. “ Re- 
ally nothing?” 

“ Well, nothing Very particular.” 

“Indeed !” said the First Old Woman, with 
good-humored sarcasm. “ Is coming behind 
the scenes every night saying nothing? Was 
throwing you the flowers saying nothing ? Was 
standing outside your window last night for a 
full hour and a half— I saw him with my own 
eyes, my dear! — was that saying nothing? I 
declare, then, I shall set my cap at him ; I may 
as well take a chance in the lottery. He’s as 
handsome a young fellow as ever walked in two 
shoes, and if you intend to disappoint him — ” 

“Oh, but I don’t,” interrupted Margaret, 
apprehensively. 

Whereupon they fell to kissing one another, 
and baby came in for her share. 


IX. 

“i AM GOING TO SPEAK OUT,” SAID PHILIP. 

When Philip made his appearance that even- 
ing behind the scenes, the First Old Woman 
smiled significantly at him, and once, of malice 
aforethought, she cried to him, 

“Oh, dear me! I’m wanted on the stage! 
Hold my baby, Mr. Rowe, till I come off again.” 

And before he had time to utter a word one 
way or another, baby was in his arms, and the 
mother darted away. 

Philip was not ashamed of his burden ; he 
nursed the little thing tenderly, and Margaret, 
who was on the stage at the time, looked at 


him furtively as he was kissing the mite, and 
her mind was in such a whirl, that for the first 
time during her engagement she forgot the 
words she had to speak. Little did the un- 
conscious baby suspect the important part she 
was playing in the sentimental comedy. 

Later on in the night, Philip said to Marga- 
ret, “ I am going to speak out.” 

This was the very thing she was pining for, 
and now that her wish was about to be gratified, 
she cried, “ If you dare, sir!” saucily, mischiev- 
ously, coquettishly. 

Then what did Margaret do but lead him 
into a more retired spot, where, if he did speak 
out, no one but herself could hear him. 

“If you dare, sir!” she repeated, with a 
smile which magnetized him. But there was 
no occasion for that; he was bewitched al- 
ready. 

“Call me Philip,” he entreated. 

“Philip,” she sighed. It was like the whis- 
per of a rose. 

lie was radiant ; the joy in his heart was 
reflected in his face. He toyed with her fin- 
gers. Never were chains more potent. 

“What is that in your hand?” said she. 

“A letter.” 

“ To me ? Give it to me !” She held out 
her little hand eagerly. 

“ It is not for you.” 

‘'►Oh, indeed !” 

She tore her fingers from his grasp, for he 
had taken them and kissed them. 

“But you may read it.” 

► She nestled to him again, and looked re- 
morseful. When she pleaded mutely for for- 
giveness, with her pretty face upturned to his, 
what would you have done ? He did what you 
would have done — and did it again — and again 
— and — 

“No, sir,” she cried, putting her hand upon 
her lips. “No, Philip, I mean. You shall 
not — you must not ; some one will be coming 
this way — ” 

There was nothing for it, as her lips were 
covered, but to kiss her neck ; and he did so, 
until she lay in his arms panting. 

“You frighten me,” she sighed; “and if 
you are not still, I’ll run away.” 

And she meant it. She had been made love 
to a hundred hundred times upon the stage, 
but those were sham engagements, and her 
gentle breast was not fluttered by them, nor 
was her sweet nature spoiled by them. This 
sort of thing was quite different. 

“And I’ve a great mind to be angry with 
you,” she said, not moving from his embrace. 

“Why?” 

“You have brought me no flowers.” 

“ Be angry with me after you have read my 
letter.” 

“How can I read it when you will not let 
me go ?” 

Certainly his arms were round her, but she 
did not make the least effort to get away from 
them. 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


27 


“ Shall I let you go?” 

“If you like.” 

“ I don’t like.” * 

He pressed her closer to him. 

“Tell me, first, how you got my flowers last 
night.” 

“Why, you puss, I have told you twice al- 
ready.” 

“I forget it ; I want to hear it again.” 

Such small deceptions are permissible be- 
tween lovers, when they are used to such felic- 
itous purpose. He told her again, and her 
bosom panted, and her heart beat, and a proud 
and tender light shone in her eyes as he de- 
scribed the mad gallop he had taken ; how he 
had won the flowers ; the way the woman had 
said, “Oh, if it’s for that!” then the ride back, 
singing as he rode, 

“ Singing !” she exclaimed, interrupting him. 
“ Oh, you didn’t tell me that last night. I knew 
you had left something out/’ 

“I did sing, and the trees heard me.” 

“What song was it, sir?” 

“Philip!” 

“Philip, then. What song did you sing?” 

“No song at all — yes, the sweetest song. 
A song with only one word to it.”. 

“ With only one word to it? Dear me ! I 
know some, and I don’t know that — and the 
sweetest song, you say!” 

“The sweetest, the dearest, the best word in 
the world.”’ 

“ What word was it ?” 

“Margaret — Margaret— Margaret !” 

“Oh, Philip ! And every body heard it !” 

“I left it behind me — no, I didn’t; I wouldn’t 
part with it. Part with it ? Never, while my 
heart beats !. Yet I did lose it, too, for an echo 
stole it — and I heard it singing Margaret as I 
rode on.” 

They were talking together in the open; 
there was a light in the sky, but the moon had 
not yet risen. Ten minutes afterward he said : 

“Now. read my letter.” 

“I can’t see it,” placing her eyes close to it ; 
“it’s too dark.” 

“Not for my eyes.” He bent his head to 
hers ; their cheeks touched. 

“‘Dear Madam,”’ he commenced, “‘my 
name is Philip Rowe — ’ ” 

“What a stupid commencement 1” she said, 
laughing. 

“Is it? Wait. Perhaps it will improve 
farther on. ‘ My name is Philip Rowe. I am 
twentyrsix years of age, and I am an English- 
man, born in Devonshire. I have a half share 
in a rich claim on a rich quartz reef. I love 
your daughter — ’ ” 

A Oh, oh !” she cried, trembling from happi- 
ness. “It’s to my mother! And you’re from 
Devonshire! Mother has friends in Devon- 
shire. I’ve never been there. Go on, Phil- 
ip. ‘I love yonr daughter.’ Do you, do you, 
Philip?” 

“Do I, my darling?” he said, passionately. 
“Listen to my heart. What does it beat but 


Margaret, Margaret ? I came here to find my 
life, and I have found her. I love you with 
all my soul. I never knew what a beautiful 
thing life was until I saw your dear face.” 

This was heaven to her to hear. Presently, 
“ Go on, Philip. ‘ I love your daughter.’ ” 

“ ‘And she loves me.’ ” 

“Oh, Philip! who told you?. What arc 
you doing, sir ?” 

“I am listening to your heart, my darling.” 

“And what does it say ? As if it could 
speak ! What does it say, sir?” 

“I think I hear it. I think it beats for me.” 

So inexpressibly tender was his tone, that 
her arms crept round his neck, and she sighed, 
“ It does, Philip ; ,it does.” 

It was the proudest, happiest moment in his 
life. A blissful silence encompassed them. 

“ I haven’t much more to read,” he said ; and 
added, cunningly, “Where did I leave off?” 

“ You know, Philip.” 

“No, but tell me.” 

“ ‘And she loves me,’” she whispered. 

“My darling! ‘I love your daughter, and 
she loves me. I can not make a lady of her, 
for she is that already, thanks to you.’ Isn’t 
that good ?” he asked, breaking off. 

“Yes. Go on ; go on. I want to hear the 
end.” 

“‘I will do all in my power to make her 
happy ; and I write, with her permission, to ask 
you to allow me to subscribe myself, in every 
letter that follows this, your affectionate son, 
Philip Rowe.’ There!” 

“And how can you see to read such a bold 
letter, sir ? My eyes are as good as yours, and 
there’s no light.” 

“ I did not read with my eyes, dear Marga- 
ret.” 

“With what then, sir? You are full of rid- 
dles.” 

“With my heart, my darling.” 


N. 

“prat for rain, my darling.” 

“We are getting along finely,” said William 
Smith, rubbing his hands briskly as he looked 
around with satisfaction upon the busy scene. 
The crushing-machine was nearly ready. It 
was a Berdan’s, with twelve stampers to pound 
the stone to dust. The steam-engine was in 
fine order. The dam was built and ready for 
water. 

William Smith had good reason to feel proud, 
for by his enterprise he had peopled this hither- 
to deserted spot. A hundred tents of drill, and 
a few more pretentious with w r alls built of slabs, 
were scattered about, and by a wave of his hand 
three hundred strong men had found profitable 
employment. . Some had their wives with them, 
and goats and children scampered about the 
gullies and over the adjacent hills. The stores, 
the principal one of which and the most favored 


28 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


by the diggers belonged to William Smith, were 
doing a roaring business. A wise man, Wil- 
liam Smith ; no half-hearted worker : what he 
did was thoroughly done. He was an. honest, 
straightforward man too, driving a hard bar- 
gain always, and always to his own advantage ; 
but those he dealt with had their gains also, 
and they knew that his words were to be de- 
pended upon down to the last letter. Wherever 
he .competed he took the lead, and deserved- 
ly. His hotel was. the best in Silver Creek; 
the best accommodation was to be found there, 
the best liquors were to be obtained there. His 
theatre was a model of comfort. His store on 
The Margaret Reef (I have not had time before 
to tell you that Philip had christened it The 
Margaret inynediately he knew the name of his 
sweetheart) was as complete as it was possible 
for a store on the gold-diggings to be. He sold 
the best of every thing — the best and nattiest 
water-tight boots with square toes and clean- 
cut nails in the soles, the strongest laces, the 
stoutest and soundest drill and calico for tents 
and flies, the trustiest steel for gads, the most 
serviceable serge and Scotch twill shirts, the 
finest pea-jackets, the most expensive cabbage- 
tree and panama hats, the best tobacco, and 
every thing else of the first quality. His 
store was the post-office, and there was a cor- 
ner in it where the diggers could write their 
letters and read the Silver Creek Herald and the 
Silver Creek Mercury. He had planned roads, 
and had some idea of using his influence for 
the laying -out of a township by the govern- 
ment. In his way, William Smith was a small 
Moses ; with room and opportunity and a thou- 
• sand men at his back he could have laid the 
solid foundation of a great nation. He had 
the true legislative faculties for such an under- 
taking, and I am sure that he would have look- 
ed after Number One. The bricklayer might 
have become a ruler of men. 

The scene, altogether, that was to be wit- 
nessed day and night on The Margaret Reef 
was such as never can be witnessed in an old 
country. In civilized countries men seem to 
go about their work with a sadness upon them, 
and as if they were laboring under some kind 
of oppression. In such -like places as I am 
describing, men rise in the morning and set 
about their work with smiles, and vigor, and 
hearty cheerfulness. 

I have said that the dam was built and ready 
for water. William Smith said the same thing 
to Philip at the conclusion of a conversation. 
He was in high spirits ; there were two hun- 
dred and fifty tons of quartz ready for crushing 
lying in great heaps near the shaft. Half of it 
was burned, and was ready for the machine ; 
the other half was piled in the wood kilns and 
was blazing away, filling the air with not the 
pleasantest arsenical fumes. Other shafts were 
being sunk along the brow of the Margaret, and 
one'or two were beginning to yield gold-bearing 
stone. 

“What do you think it will crush?” asked 


Philip of William Smith, as they stood by a 
heap of the quartz which had been burned. 

William Smith poked about the stone and 
averaged it, a piece from one place, a piece from 
another, a piece from another. He saw plenty 
of gold in it. 

“About nine ounces to the ton, I should 
say,” replied William Smith. “We’ll first 
crush fifty tons, and wash up and see what the 
yield is. Then we’ll go straight on With two 
hundred tons, and get the biggest cake of gold 
that has ever been seen in Silver Creek and 
exhibit it in High Street. It’ll do the diggings 
good.” 

“When shall we commence to crush ?” 

“We shall be ready in three days. All we 
want is water in the dam. Now’s the time to 
pray for rain.” 

Philip went straight to Margaret, as one 
goes to one’s high-priest. * 

“Pray for rain, my darling,” he said, “pray 
for rain and told her the reason why. 

Margaret prayed for rain, obediently, as she 
had been bidden, and prayed for it so hard that, 
whether you will believe it or not, such a down- 
pour commenced on Silver Creek at ten o’clock 
that night as had never been witnessed by the 
oldest inhabitant — a veteran of two years or 
less. Silver Creek overflowed its banks, and 
the lower parts of the township were flooded. 
Philip was wild with joy. 

“You duck!” he said to Margaret — he was 
in the theatre when the rain commenced — “ this 
is all your doing.” 

We sober- going persons know, of course, 
that it was only a coincidence. Margaret, 
however, smiled demurety. She was quite 
ready to take the credit of it ; she would not 
have been a woman else. But it was rather a 
stretch on Philip’s part. 

William Smith looked anxious. He want- 
ed rain, but he was a little bit afraid of such a 
downpour as this, thinking that the dam might 
not be strong enough to bear it. Philip ran to 
Margaret, and told her of Smith’s fears: 

“ The dam not strong enough !” she exclaim- 
ed. “Oh, but it is!” 

Philip was satisfied. The most profound 
logic could not have so convinced him of the 
soundness of the dam. He could not convince 
William Smith, however, for Smith was not in 
love. That enterprising person wanted to set 
out at once for The Margaret Reef, but it was 
impossible to get there in such a storm. Ra- 
ging torrents were in the way. Smith fretted 
that he could not whistle them aside. But he 
did not fret long ; he accepted the inevitable with 
a bad grace. Philip accepted it in a very dif- 
ferent fashion ; but then it was pleasant to him, 
for it compelled him to remain for the night in 
the hotel where Margaret was. He had also 
a little private business to do with Mr. Hart. 
Margaret had related to him the incident on 
the road which had led to the baby becoming a 
shareholder in Hart’s Star Dramatic Company, 
and how that it was Mr. Hart who had suggest- 


29 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


ed it. Philip, who was fond of children, was 
mightily pleased, and was loud in liis praises 
of Mr. Hart, and Margaret chimed in. She 
loved the old man, and indeed they both had 
occasion to he grateful to him. Between them 
they hnd concocted a plan — that is to say, Phil- 
ip had concocted it, and Margaret had said 
“Yes,” “Yes,” to everything; which, in Phil- 
ip’s eyes, made her the author of it. What 
that plan was will now be seen. 

The performances concluded at eleven o’clock. 
The roof of the theatre was made of zinc, and 
the rain fell on it so heavily and loudly that not' 
a word could be heard within the walls. But 
the actors went on with their parts neverthe- 
less, and to keep the audience in a good humor, 
introduced dances in the piece, and played such 
impromptu antics that the audience rather bless- 
ed the storm than otherwise. 

“When it is all settled,” said Margaret to 
Philip, “come to my room and knock at the 
door ; then I will come down and give Mr. Hart 
a kiss.” 

Philip looked blank at this. 

“You goose!” said Margaret. “I have 
kissed him I don’t know how many times. Why, 
he’s oyer sixty ! and don’t you think he deserves 
it, sir, for the care he has taken of me ?” 

“Of course,” responded Philip, the cloud in 
his face clearing. “I am a goose. I know 
you wouldn’t kiss a younger man — unless it was 
me.” 

“Not a much younger man,” replied Mar- 
garet with a merry laugh, as she ran away from 
him. 

XI. 

“what if there are villains and scoun- 
drels IN THE WORLD?” HE CRIED. “ WE 

WILL NEVER LOSE OUR FAITH IN GOD AND 

MAN — never! never! never!” 

Philip watched until she was out of sight, 
and then walked slowly to Mr. Hart’s room, 
and knocked at the door, but received no an- 
swer. He strolled into the bar of the hotel, 
but could not see Mr. Hart. 

“He must he in his room,” quoth Philip to 
himself. “There was a light there.” 

He knocked at the door again, and still re- 
ceiving no answer turned the handle, and found 
the door unfastened. He entered the room, 
and saw Mr. Hart sitting before his little table 
with his head buried in his hands. 

“Ah, you’re there,” said Philip, closing the 
door behind him and drawing a chair to the ta- 
ble. “I want to say something particular to 
you.” 

Mr. Hart, with a wave of his hand, motioned 
the young man to proceed. Philip was flush- 
ed and excited and somewhat nervous as to 
how his mission would be received ; and being 
in this condition he did not observe any change 
in Mr. Hart’s face or manner. 

“This is how it is,” he continued. “You 


made me an offer for a share m my claim once, 
and I refused it. Well, I' was wrong in refus- 
ing, and Want to accept it now. Don’t think 
there’s any favor in it, or that the claim is any 
better or any worse than it was. The stone is 
looking splendid, and now that the rain is fall- 
ing the dam will be filled, and we shall com- 
mence to crush directly it clears up. Now I 
want you to give me two hundred and fifty 
pounds for a quarter of my half share. That 
is an eighth part of the claim, and it sets the 
claim at a good price — two thousand pounds ; 
and I’ll make you a bet of three hundred 
pounds, and stake the money, that in less than 
six jveeks your share of the profits will amount 
to three times as much as I ask you for it. 
There, that is how it is. Now say ‘Done,’ 
like a good fellow, and place me under an ob- 
ligation to you for life. I know you have the 
money.” 

He blurted out these words, not coherently 
and smoothly as they are written here, but in 
as bungling a manner as can well be imagined. 
He stammered, he hesitated, he repeated his 
words, but at length he had explained himself. 
Mr. Hart had listened quietly, the only motion 
he made being one which would hide his face 
more effectually from Philip. When Philip 
had finished his lame speech and was waiting 
for an answer, he noticed that Mr. Hart’s trunk 
was open, and that all its contents were scat- 
tered on the floor ; indeed the whole room was 
in a state of confusion. Mr. Hart spoke in a 
low tone. 

“ You offer me a fourth of your share for two 
hundred and fifty pounds.” 

“Yes, and I have the agreement in dupli- 
cate in my pocket, with my name to it. It 
only wants your signature, and the thing is set- 
tled.” 

“And you will bet me three hundred pounds, 
staking the money, that in less than six weeks 
I shall receive back for my share of the profits 
three times as much as I give you for it.” 

“That’s it.” 

“ With whom will you stake the money ?” 

“With you.” 

“So that I shall really have in hand fifty 
pounds more than you ask for the share.” 

“That’s it; but why so many words? Say 
Done and done.” Philip v;as on thorns while 
the matter was unsettled. 

“I must clearly understand,” said Mr. Hart, 
in the same low tone, which, indeed, he pre- 
served throughout the first part of the conver- 
sation, “ before I can say any thing to the offer. 
I want to be certain that you mean honestly 
by me. There is plenty of roguery about.” 

“ That’s true,” replied Philip, complacently ; 
“I’m a bit of a regue myself.” 

“And,” proceeded Mr. Hart, with a strange 
hesitation in his voice, “at the end of six 
weeks I shall be sure to be fifty pounds in 
pocket ?” 

“ More, I hope.” 

Mr. Hart paused, to steady himself. “I’m 


30 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


not much of an arithmetician ; I was always a 
had hand at figures ; but I can see that I must 
be a gainer if I accept your offer.” 

“I hope you will be.” 

“ Your claim is a rich one.” 

“We shall make a fortune out of it in three 
months,” replied Philip, with a bright smile — 
“you and all of us.” 

“ On the first day I saw you—” 

“ When you pulled the centipede out of my 
hair,” interrupted Philip. “Yes; goon.” 

“I offered you, if you remember, a hundred 
and twenty pounds for a small share in your 
claim.” 

“I remember.” 

“And you refused, saying you would want 
twenty times as much.” 

“ I spoke like a fool ; I didn’t know you 
then.” 

Again Mr. Hart paused. 

“Philip,” he said presently, in a tremulous 
tone, “why do you make me this offer?” 

Philip hung his head upon his breast, and 
with a slight trembling of his lower lip, re- 
plied, 

“Because I love you.” 

A sudden rush of tears came into Mr. Hart’s 
eyes, and he laid his head upon his arm. 

“For God’s sake don’t do that !” cried Phil- 
ip, rising hurriedly, and looking about him in 
distress. 1 ‘ If I’ve said any thing to hurt you, 
forgive me. I’m a great hulking brute ; Mar- 
garet will never forgive me. There, there! 
old fellow ! ” 

And Philip, whose heart was as tender as a 
woman’s, and whose first intention had been to 
fly from the room and dash through the storm, 
knelt by the side of Mr. Hart, and used words 
as gentle, and actions as fond, as though he 
were kneeling by the side of a child. And all 
the time he did this his great limbs were trem- 
bling, and the tears were running down his 
strong beard. Mr. Hart raised his head, which 
was now on a level with Philip’s, and with no 
more shame or awkwardness than a child would 
exhibit, put his arms over Philip’s shoulder, 
and kissed him. I draw a veil over the next 
few moments : neither of them spoke during 
that time, but the silence was more eloquent 
than .words. Then said Mr. Hart, when he 
was calmer, m 

“ Philip, my son, you have taught me a les- 
son ; you have made my heart green again. 
It was turning bitter against all men, and you 
have softened it, and restored my faith. Ah, 
how proud your father must be of such a son !” 

Philip groaned. “ I ran away from him ; I 
was a scapegrace at home, and I caused the dear 
old fellow many a heart-ache. Nevermind. I 
will repay him ; I know better now.” 

“You did nothing wrong, my dear boy, I am 
sure.” 

“I almost broke his heart, I think. I tried 
his patience sorely. He sent me to Cambridge 
to do honor to his name, and I did my best to 
disgrace it. I went home with a long tail of 


debts behind me ; he paid them, and said, 

“ Never mind, my lad ; promise me that you 
will not do so again ; see here, I will double 
your allowance.” I promised him, and I got 
into debt again ; it hurt him — I saw that. 
That I should break a promise to him, w.ho had 
never broken one to me, who had never said a 
harsh word to me, made him wince. Again 
he paid my debts ; again I promised ; again I 
broke my word. More than that : I involved 
the son of a friend of his, who gave his name 
for me to the money-lenders. Well, I couldn’t 
•face him the third time. I sent him a list of 
my debts, and I ran away. The best thing I 
could do — and the worst, I think, for he loved 
me, the dear old dad !” 

“ You will live to repay him.” 

“ I will do my best. I will go home to him, 
with my dear Margaret on my arm, and say— 
and say, ‘Dear old dad — ’” But he broke 
down here, and it was Mr. Hart’s turn to con- 
sole him now. He was not long in this mood. 
He jumped to his feet, and with a great shake 
of his shoulders cried, 

“Enough about me. You are in trouble. 
What is it?” 

“I can not buy the share you offer me, 
Philip.” 

. “ Why ? You have money enough, and you 
shall buy it. You shall ! I’ll drag the money 
out of your box ! Oh, I know where you keep 
it, and I’m strong enough to do what I say.” 

“You’ll find no money there, Philip,” said 
Mr. Hart, sadly. \ 

“You don’t mean to say you’ve been specu- 
lating, and lost it ?” said Philip, pulling a long 
face. 

“No, I have not lost it by speculation, but 
it is gone all the same.' See here, Philip, my 
son. I had saved nearly four hundred pounds, 
and I had almost made up my mind to go home 
and see my daughter at the end of this three 
months’ engagement. It would have been 
madness to do it when, by staying here for 
three months longer, I might have doubled my 
savings, which are all for her; but I am yearn- 
ing to hold her in my arms, and press my dar- 
ling to my heart. Ah, Philip, you don’t know 
what a father’s love is — you may, one day, my 
boy, and then you will understand my feelings. 
Prudence said, * Stay a little while longer ;’ 
but my heart’s yearning beat prudence out of 
the field. It said to me, ‘ You are an old man ; 
young as you feel, you may break down. Let 
your daughter see you when you are strong, 
and able, old as you are, to protect and advise 
her. Don’t wait till you are decrepit and fee- 
ble, and when she can not have faith and con- 
fidence in you. You have saved money enough 
three times during the last seven yea*rs, and 
each time you have staid a “little longer, and 
lost it. Go now, and don’t tempt bad fortune 
again.’ About my having saved money enough 
three times, Philip. It is true, and true that I 
have lost it, lost it by trusting friends. Well, 
I began to get frightened by these reflections, 


31 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


and to-day, you know, the letters by the Over- 
land Mail came up to Silver Creek. Among 
them was a letter for me from my daughter, a 
letter filled with such expressions of love and af- 
fection that I should have been less than a man 
not to have hungered for a sight of her. I re- 
solved ; I would go home when the engagement 
here terminated. I reckoned that I could land 
in England with six hundred pounds. After the 
theatre was closed, I came into my room, and 
opened my box, to count my money as a miser 
does. How often have I done it, and with what 
different feelings from those which must ani- 
mate a miser ! Imagine my despair, my hoy, 
when I found that I had been robbed. Philip, 
I haven’t a shilling in the world. Once more 
I am left a beggar. It was while I was con- 
templating the dreary prospect before me that 
you came in. In my heart I was cursing all 
mankind, and a terrible feeling of doubt of high- 
** er things was creeping into my mind. But your 
noble offer has restored my faith again. What 
if there are villains and scoundrels in the 
world!” he cried, standing up before the ad- 
miring Philip. “Let them creep, and crawl, 
and plunder, and grow rich ; and then let them 
die their death of shame. We will never lose 
our faith in God and man — never ! never ! nev- 
er! Ay, though our dear heart’s wishes may 
never be gratified. We will bow our heads rev- 
erently, and believe in goodness, and hope to 
the last.” He held out his hand, and Philip 
took it. The grasp was to the younger man 
as though he were pledging himself to a life of 
honor and integrity. “In my younger days,” 
continued Mr. Hart, with a soft light in his 
eyes, “I had a friend; in my young days I 
loved a woman as truly as you love Margaret. 
I have not seen my friend for thirty years. ‘ I 
have not received line or message from him, 
nor he from me, and he is still my friend, and 
I am his. The woman I loved did not love 
me, and I went from her sight. But though in 
after years I loved another woman who became 
my wife, and who gave me my daughter, the 
memory of the first has never left me, and I 
think of her with tenderness still. These and 
other remembrances have in a measure sus- 
tained my faith and, I humbly hope, purified 
my life. Shall I turn misanthrope now in my 
old age, and snarl at mankind because I have 
been deceived for the dozenth time? No, Phil- 
ip, no. It would be robbing life of all its sweet- 
ness.” But in spite of this generous outburst, 
his grief was too powerful to be thus suddenly 
conquered, and his lips quivered again with 
emotion as he thought of his loss. “Leave 
me now, Philip,” he said. 

He had barely uttered these words when the 
storm without grew more furious. The wind 
rattled about the wooden walls of the hotel to 
such an extent that it seemed as though the 
building could not possibly hold together. A 
flash of lightning, so vivid that it almost blinded 
them, pierced the ground, and at its heels fol- 
lowed a peal of thunder so terrible that it shook 


the very foundation of the earth. They stood 
spell-bound. When sight and hearing were re- 
stored to them, they heard what sounded like a 
great crash outside, mingled with human cries ; 
but their attention was diverted from these by 
the appearance of Margaret, white and trem- 
bling, at the door. 

* • » 

XII. 

“ THIS IS LIKE THE DAWN OF LIFE, MY SWEET.” 

“I am frightened,” she murmured, and ran 
into her lover’s arms, and hid her face in his 
breast, and tremblingly asked if the world, was 
coming to an end. 

Philip tried to soothe and pacify her, losing 
sight of his own fear in his fear for Margaret, 
but his efforts were not successful at first. 

“ It is coming to an end, I know,” she mur- 
mured (meaning the world), “ but it is a com- 
fort to die in your arms.” 

“ It will be a greater comfort to live in them,” 
replied Philip, half gayly. 

She reproved him, asking “ How could he, at 
such a time ?” and murmured that it was wicked 
to think of such things (never mentioning what 
things) in the midst of such terrible goings-on. 
I doubt if any other two persons in the hotel, 
speaking so softly, could have heard one anoth- 
er, but these two were lovers, and their lips al- 
most, perhaps quite, touched. The storm was 
raging so furiously, and there were such a din 
and confusion all around them, Avinds blowing, 
thunder thundering, and people shouting, that 
Mr. Hart had to raise his voice very high when 
he spoke, so that Philip might hear it. 

“Something has occurred,” he said; “did 
you hear the crash ?” Philip nodded that he 
had heard it. “ It was not all thunder ; some 
mischief has been done ; I shall go out and see.” 

“ I will go too,” said Philip. 

“And leave me!” cried Margaret. He would 
have found it difficult to do so, she clung to him 
so closely. 

“ No,” he answered ; “come along with us.” 

She was satisfied that she could not be in a 
safer refuge. Philip caught up a blanket, and 
wrapped his Margaret in it from head to foot. 
All was dark outside, except when the lightning 
lit up the scene. 

“ Keep close, Margaret,” said Philip. 

As if she needed telling ! 

“A black night indeed,” said Mr. Hart, 
holding his hand before his eyes; “a black 
night, in every sense. One wants sailor’s eyes 
at such a time. Why, where’s the theatre ?” 

A flash of lightning had revealed to him the 
space where the theatre had stood, but the roof 
was no longer visible. Their forms had been 
recognized in the. flash. 

“ Is that you, Hart ?” cried a hearty voice. 

It was William Smith who spoke, and his 
voice was. as cheery and as ringing as the blast 
of a silver trumpet. 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


“Yes. 

“ Who’s that with you ?” 

“Philip.” 

“Ah, Philip. If the dam has stood, our for- 
tune’s made, Philip. 

“The dam’s all right!” shouted Philip. 

(Please to remember that there could be no 
doubt about the safety of the dam, Margaret s 
lips having insured it.) • 

“I hope so,” shouted William Smith. “Mr. 
Hart, the theatre’s down !” 

Mr. Hart groaned. “ It needed but this,” 
lie murmured. 

“ We’ll have it up again in less than a week,” 
cried the plucky speculator. “ William Smith’s 
hard to beat.” 

He really seemed to enjoy it. If those who 
had known Ijim in London could have seen and 
heard him now, they would scarcely have be- 
lieved. In the old country he was a mouse ; in 
the new Country he was a man. The wind was 
enough to blow them away, and it was impos- 
sible for them to reniain in the storm. They 
were already wet through, so they returned^to 
Mr. Hart’s room ; and presently William Smith 
joined them, smiling, and fresh as a flower, with 
the rain glistening on his face and in his hair. 
He did not stop with them long, for he had his 
business to look after ; his bars were thronged 
with diggers, drinking the lightning and thun- 
der down. Margaret ran up stairs to her room, 
to change her dripping clothes, and when she 
presented herself again, she was dressed in a 
loose gown, and her long brown hair was hang- 
ing down her back. 

“By Jove!” said Philip, under his breath, 
gazing at her in silent admiration. There was 
nothing sham about his Margaret, he thought ; 
she was genuine to the very roots of her hair. 
Margaret smiled ‘ coyly ; she knew what was 
passing through her lover’s mind, and was not 
sorry for the opportunity to show herself. So 
these small bits of sentimental comedy were 
played, while the tragedy of the storm was be- 
ing enacted without. 

“ We’ll make a night of it,” said Philip. 

All this while he had forgotten Mr. Hart’s 
loss, but it flashed upon him suddenly in the sad 
look that dwelt in the old man’s eyes. 

“Margaret,” he said, “go into that corner, 
and shut your eyes. , Mr. Hart and I have a 
little bit of private business to transact; it 
won’t take five minutes.” 

Obedient Margaret moved a few paces away, 
and closed her eyes, and raised the picture of 
her lover, handsome, and brave, and noble, to 
feast upon mentally. Philip stole to her, kiss- 
ed her fresh lips, and whispered a word in her 
ear. Then he looked about him for pen and 
. ink, and brought them to the table. 

“ Now,” he said, in a low tone to Mr. Hart, 
“ please to sign these papers.” 

He took from his pocket the duplicate agree- 
ments, by which he sold, and Mr. Harf; bought, 
a fourth of his share in the claim on the Mar- 
garet Reef. Mr. Hart gently shook his head. 


•But Philip would not be denied. He pressed 
and argued, and argued and pressed, until all 
that Mr. Hart could do was to sit still and list- 
en. But still he would not sign. 

“Margaret,” said Philip, “come and help 
3 .” 

Up jumped Margaret, and ran to the table. 

“ This is how it is,” said Philip, appealing to 
her, but Mr. Hart interrupted him. 

“ No, no ; let me explain.” 

“ Stop his mouth, Margaret/ 

Margaret placed her small hand on Mr. 
Hart’s mouth, having to encircle his neck with 
her soft arm to do so. He could not quarrel 
with the necklace, and he kissed her hand. 

“Oh, you may kiss it!” said she. “Philip 
will not be angry, nor will I.” 

“I angry !” exclaimed Philip. “ With him 
or you ! Keep your hand there, and let him 
kiss it as often as he likes. She gave Philip 
her other hand as a reward, and he warmed it 
in his. “ This is how it is, Margaret—” and he 
explained the matter to her. She was grave 
and silent when his story was finished, out of 
sympathy for Mr. Hart s loss, and also out of 
gratitude for her lover’s goodness. There was 
nothing sordid in either of their souls. 

“It amounts to this,” said Margaret, in un- 
conscious imitation of Philip’s style ; “ that Mr. 
Hart wants to part us.” 

“My dear child !” he remonstrated. 

“ You do ! You know you do ! for if you 
don’t sign, and become a shareholder in the 
Margaret Reef, Margaret and Philip will never 
be married. No, Philip ; I’m resolved. I’ll 
never marry you unless I have my own way in 
this.” 

“ Do you hear what she says ?” shouted Phil- 
ip, triumphantly. “And do you intend to part 
us forever ?” 

The upshot of it all was that Mr. Hart ‘was 
compelled to yield ; but he declared in broken 
words, and with tears in his eyes, that he yield- 
ed only under compulsion. It might have been, 
for at the last moment, before signing, he was 
about to dash the pen away, when Margaret 
stayed his hand, and with her fingers upon his 
guided them to sign his name. It would not 
make a bad picture this ; and one almost as 
good followed, for Philip seized Margaret round 
the waist, and they w’altzed round the old man, 
singing and laughing, while the storm howled 
without. 

“ God bless you, my dears,” said Mr. Hart, 
and would have continued his expressions of 
gratitude, had not Margaret drowned his voice 
with her tra-la-la. It was arranged that the 
share should be paid for with the first tw r o hun- 
dred and fifty pounds that would come to Mr. 
Hart out of the division of profits. 

“ So after all,” said Philip, “it’s only lend- 
ing you the money for a week or two.” 

“It is giving me the gold,*” observed Mr. 
Hart. 

“You gave me Margaret,” replied Philip, 
softly; “and do you think she’s not worth 


33 


AT THE SIGN OF T: 

more than all the gold in the world ? I am 
your debtor still, and shall be all my life.” 

Delicious words, both to utter and to hear. 

They sat together until sunrise, and Marga- 
ret fell asleep in her lover’s arms. Philip tasted 
then the most perfect happiness of his life. 

When the sun arose, the storm cleared away. 
Margaret awoke, and sighed and blushed, and 
Mr. Hart found something so interesting at his 
window that he was compelled to keep his 
back to them. They forgave the rudeness ; 
and presently came to the window, and looked 
out upon a glorious sight. The skies were glow- 
ing with grand color. Broad masses of golden 
light fringed with purple, which changed grad- 
ually to crimson, rose from the dip of the hori- 
zon ; brightly shone the sun in its bed ; the 
sky was dotted with cloud islands of rosy red in 
the east, and fairy islands of the loveliest shades 
of blue, flecked with white, moved toward them 
from the west. Raindrops seemed to hang, 
like glistening eyes, between cloud and land ; 
the heavens laughed ; all was sweet, and fresh, 
and beautiful. 

So, in another land, which lay beneath them, 
and on another morning, when summer was 
waning, the old man shall stand gazing on the 
sunrise with grateful eyes and grateful heart, 
embracing her who was dearer to him than his 
heart’s blood. 

“This is like the dawn of life, my sweet,” 
whispered Philip to Margaret. 

“ Of our life, Philip,” she whispered. 

Mr. Hart heard them. 

“A happy dawn,” he prayed. “May it 
bring a happy day !” 

But prayers could not avert what was soon 
to come. 


XIII. 

THE CHRISTENING OE THE WILLIAM SMITH. 

William Smith, the practical, the indefati- 
gable, the restless, the dauntless, the man of ac- 
tion, who seemingly could do without sleep, and 
who had become a hero by contact with oppor- 
tunity — (well, that is my opinion, and I alone 
am responsible for what is here written) — Wil- 
liam Smith, I say, burst into the room, crying, 

“Come, Philip, come, to the Margaret Reef!” 

Margaret darted out of Philip’s arms ; she 
would not let all the world see. Smith knew 
how matters stood between Philip and Marga- 
ret, and he winked at Mr. Hart. 

“Ah,” said Philip, coming back to earth — 
and water, I might say ; “ the dam !” 

“Yes,” said William Smith, “the dam. I 
told you you might pray for rain. Now pray 
for the dam.” 

“ I know a prayer,” thought Philip, and pray- 
ed : “Margaret!” 

“You get to bed, my girl,” said William 
Smith to Margaret; “all the danger’s over 
now, and all the harm’s done. I’ve horses 
outside.” 


E SILVER FLAGON. 

“I shall want one,” put in Mr. Hart. 

“ You !” exclaimed William Smith. “ What 
interest have you in the dam ? See to your the- 
atre.” 

“What interest!” said Philip why, he 
happens to be a shareholder in The Margaret 
Reef. Didn’t you know ?” 

“ No ; but I’m glad to know it now. Good 
luck to The Margaret, and all concerned in it. 
I’ll have a horse ready for you in a jiffy.” (A 
new kind of conveyance for a horse to be har- 
nessed to.) 

Out he went again, and before he returned 
Margaret had disappeared, first telling Philip 
that she was going to pray for the dam. Philip 
was satisfied that her praying was better than 
the best of puddling. Before the men mount- 
ed, they had a look at the theatre ; it was a 
mass of ruins. The wind had not only blown 
it down, but had blown more than half of it 
miles away. In a gully, four miles from the 
spot, into which a pick had not yet been stuck, 
the first thing that was found some months af- 
terward by men who went to seek for gold was 
a scratch wig belonging to the Low Comedian ; 
which puzzled the prospectors. They did not 
go to that gully to find wigs. Some part of the 
wardrobe belonging to the actors was buried be- 
neath the ruins of the theatre, but a great deal 
had been blown away. Most of it was brought 
back, at odd times, by the diggers and their 
wives, who had rare laughs over the queer vest- 
ments. Some of them made a great commo- 
tion in the township one day, by marching into 
High Street, dressed most absurdly. Charles 
the Second, in a red wig and with Macbeth’s 
shield on his arm, was followed by Clown, with 
heavy eyebrows and mustaches ; behind him • 
came one who was half Roman and half Scotch- 
man ; and a perfect piece of patchwork brought 
up the rear. A fine jollification followed, you 
may be sure. 

While William Smith and his companions 
were gazing on the ruins of the theatre, a dozen 
laborers came up, and under the direction of 
one began to clear away the fallen timber. 
Mr. Hart and Philip looked to William Smith 
for an explanation. He gave it them. While 
the storm was raging, he had signed a contract 
for a new theatre. It might almost be thought 
that he slept with one eye open. Mr. Hart 
said as much. William Smith laughed. 

“It would be a useful thing to be able to 
do,” he said. “But what are you wondering 
at ? William Smith never loses a day.” 

He was the kind of man to put heart into 
men when misfortune overtook them. He 
would say, “If bad fortune gives me a slap in 
the face, I don’t lay down and whimper.” (He 
was not particular as to his grammar, although 
he had a proper respect for knowledge and ed- 
ucation.) “I don’t lay down and whimper,” 
said he; “I tuck up my sleeves, and set to — 
with a will.” 

When they were in the saddle, and riding 
along toward The Margaret Reef, they saw ev- 


3 


34 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


idences of the same kind of spirit in other men. 
Numbers of tents had been literally torn into 
shreds by the storm ; valuable shafts had fallen 
in ; tools and windlasses and puddling machines 
had been swept away by the flood, which in 
many places had made hills of gullies and gul- 
lies of hills. All was confusion, hut men were 
working everywhere, with good- will, to repair 
the damage. Very different were the faces of 
these men and women from the faces of some 
poor people I saw a little while ago, in a crowd- 
ed city, after an extraordinarily high tide in 
the river, the waters of which had overflowed 
its banks, and washed into the cellars where 
they lived and slept. In the new country the 
men and women bustled about vigorously with 
faces almost cheerful ; in the old, they stood 
about, hanging their heads dolefully, and with 
not spirit enough among them to make one 
good worker out of a hundred. But the cases 
are different. 

As William Smith and his companions rode 
along, looking this way and that, Philip sudden- 
ly cried “Oh!” as though he were shot, and 
turned his horse’s head to the west, whereas 
The Margaret Reef lay to the north of them. 
Away he galloped, as though for dear life, and 
William Smith and Mr. Hart followed him. 
They went only some five hundred yards, but 
their horses had to make some big leaps over 
new water -courses in that short distance. 
Philip jumped off his horse, and tying the ani- 
mal to a fallen tree, set to work helping some 
men to dig the earth away from a tent which 
had been nearly buried by the caving in of a 
hill. When he saw what was the matter, Wil- 
liam Smith, who was at first disposed to grum- 
ble, jumped off his horse, and in another min- 
ute he and Mr. Hart were by the side of Philip, 
with their sleeves tucked up. 

Philip worked like a young Hercules, and 
when sufficient of the earth was cleared away, 
he cut a great gash in the canvas roof, and, 
stooping over with a rope tied round his waist, 
tenderly lifted two children from the chasm, 
and handed them to the diggers. He was like 
a steam-hammer, that can come down one min- 
ute with an awful thump and beat ten tons of 
metal into shape, and the next can come down 
with a tap gentle enough to fashion a thin leaf 
into the likeness of a delicate flower. After 
the two children came a woman, whom Phil- 
ip raised in his arms as though she weighed 
about an ounce, and at sight of whom the dig- 
gers raised a great shout. And one, her hus- 
band, who was lying on the ground, crippled, 
burst into a passion of grateful tears. I should 
like to tell you the story of this family, but I 
have not time just now. The persons rescued 
were alive, but insensible, and Philip and his 
companions, having ascertained that there was 
no more human life to be saved, mounted their 
horses, and resumed their course. 

At the foot of the range, on the other side 
of which the dam lay, Philip paused for a mo- 
ment to breathe the spell of Margaret’s name, 


but William Smith dashed straight on. The 
first things that met their sight were wrecks of 
canvas tents and broken tent-poles lying about. 
William Smith bit his nether lip, but said not 
a word. He was already calculating the cost 
of another and stronger dam ; what he chiefly 
regretted was the waste of time and water. 
The panting horses reached the brow of the 
range, and the men leaped off. William 
Smith did not stop to ask questions of his 
workmen, but ran swiftly onward, to see with 
his own eyes. He was an older and a weaker 
man than Philip, who raced at his heels, but 
he was the first to reach the dam. 

“ Hurra !” he screamed. “ Hurra ! hurra !” 
and Philip followed suit. 

A fair sheet of water lay before them, wank- 
ing in the eyes of the sun. The head man — 
I can not call him master; there was no such 
thing, in the sense that we understand it— met 
William Smith with a smiling face, and they 
shook hands. But both of them sobered down 
within a minute. 

“A tolerable piece of work this of yours,” 
observed William Smith. 

“ Middlingish,” was the reply, in an indiffer- 
ent tone. , 

This implied that making such a dam as this 
was nothing to him ; give him a real difficult 
job to accomplish, such as joining two seas, 
or leveling a mountain a few thousands of feet 
in height, or making a new river within a week 
or so, and then you might be able to see what 
he could do. To make such a dam as this, 
however, w r as really no joke. It was a master- 
ly* piece of work, and it was executed in a mas- 
terly manner ; there was not a flaw in it, not 
a crack in its sides. They examined it care- 
fully, critically. 

“ If it will stand such a storm as last night’s,” 
said William Smith, “ it will stand any thing.” 

Philip, as you may guess, was overjoyed ; but 
he was unjust. He gave all the credit to Mar- 
garet. He complimented the responsible man 
in a cool way, which implied, “ It is capitally 
done ; but you have Margaret to thank for it, 
you know.” 

In two days the fires were lighted in the 
boiler, and the quartz-crushing machine began 
its merry rub-a-dub-dub. There was a little 
ceremony to be gone through first. The ma- 
chine had to be christened. A little ceremony 
did I say? William Smith made it a big one. 
He prepared a great feast, and invited all the 
big-wigs of Silver Creek township to come to 
the christening. No infant was ever more 
honored than this iron baby with its twelve 
heads of stampers and its iron cradles ready to 
receive and imprison the gold. Not one per- 
son refused the invitation, and a great many 
came who were not invited, and who, being 
cordially welcomed, went home in the evening 
with a skinful and a bellyful. The Gold-fields 
Warden, the police magistrate, the chief of the 
police, the commissioners, the lawyers, the edit- 
ors of the local papers, and all the lesser lu- 


35 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


binaries of Silver Creek, were present. Wil- 
liam Smith had captured a Judge, who hap- 
pened to be passing that way, within twenty 
miles of the township ; and he was there, in all 
his glory, and right well was he treated, and 
right well did he speak, and did not say a cross 
word even when William Smith slapped him 
on the shoulders. Talk of your laying of 
foundation-stones by princes and nobles and 
members of parliament! Never could such a 
sight as this be seen in the old countries. Free 
hand, free heart, every body served alike ; all 
standing together, shoulder to shoulder, man 
to man. Be thankful that I have not time to 
describe the entire proceedings in detail. Those 
who wish to read of it more fully can send to 
Silver Creek for the Herald and the Mercury , 
where they will find fourteen columns of it — 
no less ; and in small type too. There was a 
supplement to each paper, and William Smith 
bought a thousand copies of each, and scattered 
them broadcast over the land, and over the seas. 
In these glowing reports, William Smith’s name 
was mentioned ninety -seven times. He de- 
served all the good things that were said of 
him, for such men as he are the life and soul 
of new communities. 

And all this time I have not told you the 
name of the baby. Well, not a soul knew it 
before the words passed the lips of the Judge, 
who acted as godfather and godmother. Truth 
to tell, no one thought of it. Being requested 
by William Smith to perform the ceremony, the 
Judge rose, and standing on an eminence be- 
fore the great baby, said it struck him as a 
strange thing that when he asked William 
Smith what was to be the name of the infant, 
William Smith scratched his head, and said he 
did not know. 

“It shows the modesty of the man,” said the 
Judge — “and true greatness lies in modesty — 
not to have thought of the only name which the 
infant could appropriately bear.” (William 
Smith chuckled slyly at this. The idea of call- 
ing him modest ! A man who could laugh in 
the face of a storm, as he could and did !) “I 
can say nothing in praise of William Smith,” 
continued the Judge, “that he does not de- 
serve — he is a representative man ; in him en- 
terprise, industry, forethought, and that truly 
British quality, pluck, are typified. Although 
I have only been in this thriving township a few 
hours, I have heard enough of him, and seen 
enough of him, to make me wish to hear and 
see more of him ; and I look forward to the 
day when I shall welcome him as a member of 
the Legislative Assembly which makes the laws 
for this prosperous colony. I hear that William 
Smith has made up his mind that this machine 
shall turn out the largest cake of retorted gold 
which the gold-diggings have yet produced. 
He will do it, if he has made up his mind to it, 
for nothing can check or frustrate determination 
when it is in partnership with common sense 
and sound judgment — as it is in this case. In 
christening this machine The William Smith, 1 1 


pay but a fitting tribute to the man by whose 
enterprise it was placed on this spot et cetera, 
et cetera, et cetera. 

No occasion to speak of the cheers with which 
the Judge’s oration was received ; but loud and 
deafening as they were, they were nothing to 
the volley that was given when the wife of the 
Gold-fields Warden, as the leader of fashion 
in Silver Creek, broke the bottle of champagne 
against the machine, and dubbed it The William 
Smith. Then, every thing being prepared, the 
first shovelful of golden quartz out of Philip’s 
claim was thrown beneath the stampers by the 
Judge, and the machine commenced its music, 
and every man and woman present drank suc- 
cess to it, in sparkling Number Two Moselle. 
With three times three. And three times three 
again. And again. And again. 

Philip was a little bit dissatisfied. He had 
wished his Margaret to break the bottle of 
champagne against the machine, but William 
Smith had overruled him. William Smith was 
wise in his generation, and he knew the value 
of the lady who was at the head of society in 
Silver Creek. 

“Don’t be a fool, Philip,” said William 
Smith when they were talking it over. “ Who 
settles all disputes as to boundaries and en- 
croachments ? The Gold-fields Warden. Who 
grants leases — in short, who rules Silver Creek ? 
The Gold-fields Warden. Who rules the Gold- 
fields Warden? His wife. Nothing can be 
clearer.” 

But Philip was not convinced. He still in- 
sisted. Love and prudence were at daggers 
drawn within him. William Smith appealed 
to Margaret. 

“You are a girl of sense,” he said. 

“ Mr. Smith is right,” said Margaret to Phil- 
ip, with a little pang, for she did wish to chris- 
ten the machine ; but she recognized the sound- 
ness of William Smith’s arguments. 

So, the lady of the Gold-fields Warden broke 
the bottle of champagne against the machine, 
and William Smith begged her acceptance of 
the handsomest specimen of quartz and gold 
which had been found in Philip’s claim. She 
thanked him and smiled sweetly on him, and 
conversed with him, telling her husband after- 
ward that William Smith was a most superior 
man, and had evidently moved in good society 
in the old country. You understand that Mar- 
garet was at the ceremony of the christening. 
She looked lovely, not only in Philip’s eyes, 
but in the eyes of all*the men and the unfash- 
ionable women. Would you like to know how 
she was dressed ? Her gown was of pale-blue 
muslin, daintily trimmed with ribbons of the 
same color. Around her white throat and 
slender wrists were frillings of delicate lace. 
And on her head was the sweetest hat, whispers 
of which must have floated across the seas and 
set the fashion here, notwithstanding that other 
ladies may claim the credit of designing it. It 
was a broad flap Leghorn hat, turned up coquet- 
tishly on one side with a bunch of corn-flowers, 


36 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


•with a blue-gauze veil floating behind it. And 
if any lady quarrels with Margaret’s taste, or 
with my description, and says I am wrong in 
my particulars, I shall be glad to hear from her. 

The few fashionable ladies — numbering not 
more than half a dozen — who were present act- 
ed as they act in more civilized circles. They 
put up their gold spectacles, and surveyed her 
as they would have surveyed a curiosity, and 
canvassed and appraised her features and her 
clothes. They did her Justice, though; they 
said she was pretty, and dressed in fair taste, 
but they spoke of her in a tone that denoted 
she was of a lower order than they. Margaret 
cared not a whit for their looks ; she was very 
happy. She was presented to the J udge, who 
said many fine things to her, and she not only 
carried off the palm in beauty, but also in man- 
ners and conversation. Philip’s joy and de- 
light in her knew no bounds; he discovered 
fresh charms in her in ^very new dress that she 
wore ; if she had not restrained him, he .would 
have made open love to her before all the peo- 
ple. She was compelled to give him a few mo- 
ments now and then, so that he might have op- 
portunities for secretly pressing her hand. She 
was as proud of him as he was of her, for as she 
was the handsomest woman he was the hand- 
somest man' there. 

The fine ladies were more than gracious to 
him, sighing, no doubt, that Heaven had made 
them such a man ; but he had no eyes for any 
but Margaret. The* J udge conversed with him, 
and in conversation showed off his learning, as 
judges are glad of the opportunity of doing, by 
introducing a quotation from Horace. Philip 
immediately capped it by another ; and the 
Judge there and then set his stamp upon Phil- 
ip, and said in the hearing of the fine ladies 
that if Philip happened to come to town, he 
would be glad to see him at his private house. 
This flew round, and Philip became a king ; 
even William Smith paled before him. But 
William Smith was not to be hurt by this ; so 
long as his speculations were going on all right, 
he was satisfied. He longed to hear the music 
of his machine, beating out of the quartz the 
bright gold, so much of which would fall to his 
share ; for after it was christened, it was only 
set going for a few minutes ; then it was stop- 
ped, so that the workmen engaged on it might 
make merry with the others. 

If you had seen the jolly faces of the jolly 
crowd of diggers and their wives and children, 
and the pleased and more sober faces of the 
gentlemen and their ladies ; if you had seen 
the new tents with their decorations which Wil- 
liam Smith brought on to the ground ; if you 
had seen the leaping and racing, and other 
sports which William Smith improvised, giving 
handsome prizes to the winners ; if you had 
seen the waving of flags and heard the laughter 
and clapping of hands, you would have thought 
you were at an English merry-making of the 
very finest description. And a couple of years 
ago the spot in which it was held was a wild 


tract of country, over which the feet of twenty 
white men had not passed. Now hundreds of 
men were working vigorously there from sun- 
rise to sunset, working and hoping and schem- 
ing and living their lives, and thousands more 
would soon flock around them ; now the hol- 
lows echoed their shouts, and the forests of 
trees fell beneath their axes ; now the eyes of 
forges were glowing in their lairs, and the mu- 
sic of the anvils ran along the hills; now dig- 
gers sat around the blazing trees of a night, 
and smoked their pipes, and told their stories, 
and spoke of their chances ; now the women, 
as with grateful hearts they looked at tlieir 
healthy well-fed children running about the 
hills or lying asleep in their cots, thought of the 
future with hope and pleasure ; now men were 
on the earth and in its bowels, tearing the gold- 
en rock from its bed ; now steam was doing its 
wondrous work, and gold was being sent down 
to the ports, to make men rich in the old coun- 
tries, and to pay better wages to the working- 
man. Some who were on the Margaret Reef 
on that day thought of these things. The J udge 
for one ; William Smith for another ; our dear 
friend Mr. Hart for another ; Philip for — But, 
no. I must be veracious; Philip thought of 
no such things ; he had enough to do with Mar- 
garet. 

When the bustle of the ceremony was over, 
and people were more free to act in accordance 
with their whims and fancies, Philip conduct- 
ed Margaret to his tent, and played the host to 
her. It was a small house, measuring, I should 
say, not more than ten by sixteen, white as 
snow outside, with a chimney made out of a 
whisky barrel. It was lined inside with green 
baize, and Indian matting was laid down by 
Philip especially for the occasion ; there was 
a little cupboard, with two shelves in it fixed 
up in a corner, with an oilcloth flap which 
served for a door. In another corner there was 
a little shelf of books. The mantel-piece was 
of deal, and in the very centre w r as Margaret’s 
picture, smiling demurely at you ; and on ei- 
ther side were pipes and two or three dandy 
gimcracks which Philip had brought away with 
him from Cambridge. The bed was a stretch- 
er, with an innocent-looking white counterpane 
covering its imperfections — covering also a life- 
preserver and a revolver, which Philip had put 
out of sight. The chairs were two stools and 
part of the trunk of a tree, polished in its seat 
and of a cpmfortable height. You maybe sure 
that every thing was sweet and clean, or Philip 
would not have brought his Margaret there. 
She looked about in every corner, making grand 
discoveries and uttering little screams at this 
and that. 

* “I declare, sir,” she exclaimed, “you are 
more comfortable than I thought you were. I 
v r onder why you want to change.” 

“Wouldn’t you,” he asked gavlv, “in my 
place?” 

She considered deeply, making wrinkles in 
her forehead. “No,” she said, in a decided 


37 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


tone, “ I really don’t think I should. What 
do you say ? Will you change your mind ?” 

lie shook his head with fond seriousness. 
“My name is Constancy,” he said; and was 
proceeding, when she interrupted him quickly 
with, 

“ Constancy’s a woman ; I’ll take that name, 
if you please, sir.” 

All the time they were in the tent together 
he did not kiss her ; a feeling of delicacy re- 
strained him. 


XIV. 

NATURE TUNISHES THE THIEF. 

The festivities at the Margaret Reef did not 
conclude the celebration of the christening.' 
In the night an invitation hall was given by 
William Smith to the nobility and gentry of the 
district. When he did a thing, he liked to do 
it complete!}’. He had a marquee put up es- 
pecially for the occasion, and so that the ladies 
might not think it a trade affair, he had ask- 
ed permission to erect it on the ground where 
the Government Camp buildings were. It was 
a complete and most brilliant success. The 
Judge was there, and danced in the first qua- 
drille, and so far forgot himself when he saw 
Margaret that he asked for the honor of her 
hand in the second : a proof that judges are 
human. If Margaret was lovely in the morn- 
ing at the Reef, what shall I say of her in the 
night at the ball? and what shall I say of her 
dress ? Again, but in a lesser degree, I lay 
myself open to the criticism of the ladies. 
Margaret’s dress w’as composed entirely of 
clouds of fleecy tulle, looped and caught back 
by tufts of feathery ferns and grasses. And a 
long trail of bright grass was in her beautiful 
hair. This is all that I saw, for her charming 
face took away my eyes from all the rest, and 
I should scarcely have been surprised to see 
her floating away on a clqud. Entranced 
Philip was fairly dazzled by her appearance as 
she came sailing in on the arm of Mr. Hart, 
w r ho looked what he was, every inch a gentle- 
man. Every body shook hands w r ith every 
body, as though they hadn’t seen one another 
for weeks. When Mr. Hart resigned Marga- 
ret to Philip’s care, Philip trod on air. He 
danced with her, and afterward said, 

“I shall keep possession of you the whole 
of the night.” 

Just then the Judge came up to her, and 
Philip moved a little aside, never thinking that 
so sedate a man, and one in such a position, 
would dance with a young girl like Margaret. 

“Now I am happy,” said Margaret to Philip, 
after the dance. “I have danced with a 
judge ; that’s one of the things I shall keep on 
saying all my life. I’ve danced with a judge 
— I’ve danced with a judge!” 

Then came another and a younger man, and 
Margaret walrzed away with him. Seeing jeal- 
ousy in Philip’s face, Margaret whispered, 


“ Be good. I love only you.” 

He tried hard to be good, but strive as he 
might, he could not help feeling a little bit wick- 
ed. But he contrived to obtain many crumbs of 
consolation during the night. Crumbs? Slices, 
I ought to say ; for the night was lovely, and 
now and then between the dances Philip stole 
into the open with his sweetheart on his arm. 
Being in the shade once, he wanted to embrace 
her. 

“ Be quiet, sir,” she said coquettishly. “ I’m 
only to be looked at to-night. I mustn’t be 
crushed.” 

“Why,” answered Philip, with tender adroit- 
ness, “when I am dancing with you, I place 
my arm round your waist— so.” 

“Ah,” she said, with a most delicious little 
laugh, “ that’s more neatly done.” 

“And my face is close to yours — so.” 

He had his way, and she became an accom- 
plice. Being fired to emulation, she showed 
him that she was not to be outdone in tender- 
ness. When a woman is in love, she forgets 
her cunning. 

William Smith said rather a good thing. 
The Judge had a crisp short habit of speak- 
ing. 

“ I like that judge,” said William Smith. 
“He must be a merciful man. He speaks in 
short sentences.” 

At midnight Smith came to the side of Phil- 
ip, and pulled out his watch. It was exactly 
twelve o’clock, and at that moment he had ar- 
ranged that The William Smith quartz crush- 
ing-machine should be set going. 

“They’ve commenced to dance,” he said 
gleefully. He referred to the stampers of his 
machine. 

Philip, gazing at Margaret and a handsome 
partner, who were whirling away from him, 
muttered somewhat surlily, 

“/ see them !” 

William Smith glanced at Philip in surprise. 

“My imagination doesn’t carry me as far as 
yours,” said William Smith; “but I dare say 
you are as impatient as I am.” Philip scarcely 
heard the words. William Smith continued : 
“Mr. Hart and I are going to steal away for 
an hour ; we sha’n’t be gone longer. Play the 
host while I am absent, and if they ask for me, 
say I’ll be back in a minute or two.” 

Philip nodded, and presently Mr. Hart and 
William Smith were in the saddle, and gallop- 
ing away over the hills in the direction of The 
Margaret Reef ; the horses did the distance in 
twenty-five minutes. 

“Do you hear them — do you hear them?” 
cried William Smith exultantly, as they breast- 
ed the hill. 

The music of the stampers fell on their ears. 
They halted at a distance of a couple of hun- 
dred yards from the machine. Sparks were 
flying from the chimneys ; the fires were roar- 
ing; the machine was thumping away, beating 
the gold out of the quartz. 

William Smith had good cause for triumph ; 


38 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


many a man has won a name 'in history for do- 
ing less than he had done. 

But in the midst of his exultation a tender 
sadness came upon him. 

“What would you suppose I am thinking 
of?” he asked of Mr. Hart. 

“I can’t guess,” replied Mr. Hart, who had 
thoughts of his own. 

“ I am thinking of my old mother at home,” 
said William Smith, “ and wishing she was here 
to see this day’s doings. How proud she would 
be of her Billy, as she calls me !” 

Mr. Hart was also thinking of a dear one at 
home, and of the time, soon to come he hoped, 
when he should fold her in his arms. He 
blessed the music of the stampers ; he gazed 
with tearful eyes upon the bright sparks flying 
upward from the chimneys. They would give 
him the means of seeing his darling daughter 
in her bloom of womanhood. 

At that moment, also, Philip was talking to 
Margaret of his father. 

So, beneath the stars, the old country and 
the new were joined by the tenderest heart- 
links that love can forge. 

A word as to the money which had been 
stolen from Mr. Hart. The thief was no other 
than the Walking Gentleman and the Treas- 
urer of the dramatic company. It has already 
been seen that he was ignorant of arithmetic ; 
he might have pleaded this as an excuse, had 
he been called before a human tribunal to an- 
swer for his crime. He carried out his char- 
acter of Walking Gentleman consistently, by 
walking off with Mr. Hart’s money and other 
money as well. But it was the last opportuni- 
ty he had of playing a part on this earthly stage. 
He had planned every thing carefully ; he had 
so much money of his own ; he appropriated 
Mr. Hart’s savings, having learned where the 
trustful old man was in the habit of depositing 
them ; he had, as treasurer, more than three 
hundred pounds in hand, belonging to the com- 
pany. A ship was to sail from Hobson’s Bay 
for England in four days ; he could do the dis- 
tance to the port very well in that time. Then 
on to the ship, and away for home, with nearly 
a thousand pounds of stolen money in his purse. 

All was accomplished an hour before the 
storm ; he played only in the first part of the 
performances on that night, and at nine o’clock 
he was off, dashing away from Silver Creek on 
the back of a fleet horse. He had taken the 
precaution to disguise himself, so that he might 
not be recognized. It was his intention to ride 
all night, and to catch up Cobb’s coach at a 
certain point in the morning. All went well 
for an hour ; but then the skies blackened, the 
thunder began to growl, the lightning to flash, 
and presently the storm fell upon him. He 
went on, nothing daunted, thinking it impossi- 
ble that such a downpour could last. But it 


did last, as we know, and increased in fury. 
The thief began to wish that he had chosen an- 
other night, and he cursed his bad luck ; but 
curses did not avail him, and there was now no 
turning back. On he galloped, with his head 
sunk on his breast, and the heavy rain beat 
down on him, and caused a singing in his head. 
It was at first only an indistinct roar that he 
heard, but it took shape presently, and the 
words, “Thief! thief! fool! thief!” hissed and 
plashed in his ears. Once, raising his eyes, his 
heart almost leaped out of his throat as he saw 
a tall thin form bending toward him, with the 
intention of clutching him. It was but a slen- 
der tree, bent by the force of the wind, and he 
escaped it without really knowing what it was. 
But every branch that swayed brought new ter- 
rors to him, and then he began to wish that he 
had remained honest ; he was in the bush, with 
not a tent in sight, having chosen the remotest 
track, so that he might not be seen. But had 
a human habitation been within twenty yards 
of him he would not have been able to see it, 
for by this time he was enveloped in blackness. 
He stumbled on, not knowing now whither he 
was going. 

For a little while he had strength and sense 
enough to keep a tight rein on his horse, but a 
frightful flash of lightning, and a more fright- 
ful peal of thunder, so unnerved him that the 
rein slackened in his grasp. The horse dash- 
ed madly forward — over fallen timber, through 
light thickets of bush, into great pools of water, 
that plashed up and blinded the runaway. The 
branches of the trees caught at his clothes and 
tore them in fragments from his body ; his wig 
had been the first thing to go, and the brown 
paint with which he had striven to hide his vil- 
lainy was washed from his face with, as it seem- 
ed to him, stinging whips of water. A pitiable 
sight he presented to the lightning, every flash 
of which caused him now to scream with terror, 
as he clung with wild desperation to the horse’s 
neck. Torn, bleeding, and literally in rags, 
with the stolen money in a belt fastened round 
his waist, he rode on madly, a thief confessed. 
Louder shrieked the storm ; over the ranges and 
through the uneven valleys dashed the madden- 
ed horse. A raging torrent was before them, 
and the animal leaped into it, and in the leap 
the thief was unhorsed. While he was strug- 
gling in the boiling water, and while the only 
thing that was certain was death in a few sec- 
onds, he repented most heartily of his crime, 
and I leave it to priests to say of what value 
were the choking words and the agonizing 
thoughts that typified repentance. When the 
next flash of lightning lit up the wild scene it 
illumined the furious waters rolling onward, 
and, for the millionth part of a second, the life- 
less body of a thief justly punished. 

In this way he played his last part in life, 
and was never more heard of. * 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


30 


XV. 

WILLIAM SMITH’S AMBITION. 

Merrily worked the William Smith quartz 
crushing-machine. Day and night the stamp- 
ers kept thumping and pounding. The first 
rest given to it was when the first fifty tons of 
stone had been passed beneath the stampers. 
Then the iron baby was quiet for a while. 

The iron cradles were emptied of their treas- 
ure in strong washing-tubs — hogsheads sawn 
in two, and made stronger by the blacksmith. 
The treasure consisted of finely pounded stone 
and water, among which rolled three or four 
hundredweight of quicksilver. No gold was to 
be seen ; it was hidden in the quicksilver. 

Now commenced the process of washing-up. 
The deposit in the tubs was panned, off in ordi- 
nary gold-washing dishes, the quicksilver with 
its precious treasure being put in a separate tub, 
and the waste earth which the quicksilver re- 
fused to embrace thrown aside in a little heap, 
as though it were of no account. This waste 
refuse was considered to belong, by right, to 
the proprietor of the crushing- machine, and 
consisted chiefly of iron pyrites ; it was a valu- 
able privilege, producing a good many ounces 
of gold to the ton sometimes. The quicksilver, 
having all been extracted, lay in a silky white 
mass in the large tub. The strongest man 
could not have lifted it. It was ladled care- 
fully into skins of chamois leather, which, when 
fairly filled, were squeezed tight over buckets 
of clear water. The quicksilver which did not 
contain gold oozed out in silver tears, and wept, 
into the water : it might truly be said that it 
was alive, argentum vivum ; there then remain- 
ed a thick solid mass of white metal. If you 
took up a handful of it, you could feel the beat- 
en lumps and nuggets of gold which it conceal- 
ed from view. The last process was the retort- 
ing of the metals. The quicksilver and the 
gold were deposited in the retort, a spherical 
vessel, from the cover of which rose a slender 
curved tube, up which the heated quicksilver 
ascended, as smoke ascends from a chimney. 
This retort, with its precious treasure, was 
plunged into a fiery furnace, and heated to a 
white heat, and when the last few globules of 
pretty silver spray had fallen from the bended 
tube into the water, which lay to receive it, the 
retort was unscrewed, and a large mass of molt- 
en gold, lit up by the most lovely colors, that 
seemed to flash and play upon its breast with 
fairy’s touch, was exposed to view. When 
Margaret, who was present, saw the pretty 
sight, she clasped her hands, and cried, “ O ! 
O! O!” which round circles stand for as much 
delight and admiration as could be expressed 
in three pages. Philip and the rest looked on 
with sparkling eyes. 

“What’s the weight of it?” asked William 
Smith. 

Philip, who was a novice in the matter of 
cakes of gold, guessed it at four hundred 
ounces. 


“At four pounds an ounce,” said William 
Smith, ever ready for a bargain, “that’s six- 
teen hundred pounds. I’ll give two thousand 
pounds for it as it stands.” 

Philip would have consented right away, but 
his more experienced mate laughed at William 
Smith, and with a knowing look said it would 
be a thousand pities to make him a loser by his 
enterprise. When all the rainbow color had 
died out of the gold, and it had become solidi- 
fied, the cake was put into the scales. It turn- 
ed fifty-six pounds troy — six hundred and sev- 
enty-two ounces. Deducting one hundred and 
fifty ounces, that being William Smith’s pay- 
ment for crushing the fifty tons of stone, at 
three ounces per ton, there remained five hun- 
dred and twenty-two ounces of pure gold, which 
Philip sold at sixpence less than four pounds an 
ounce, receiving in hard cash two thousand and 
sixty-six pounds nineteen shillings. 

“Here you are, old fellow,” said Philip to 
Mr. Hart, handing the old man two hundred 
and fifty-eight pounds odd for his eighth share ; 
“now you can pay me the two hundred and 
fifty you owe me. I don’t intend to wait 
three minutes for the money.” 

Mr. Hart paid Philip with a grateful sigh ; 
he knew that it would be useless to remon- 
strate with the young man. Had Mr. Hart 
been alone in the world, with no ties, he would 
not have accepted Philip’s generosity ; he would 
have quarreled with him first. But you see 
how it was with him, and you will not blame 
him, I am sure. 

The theatre was open again, and was throng- 
ed as usual. The actors and actresses were 
much concerned as to the fate of the missing 
treasurer ; none of them, with the exception of 
Mr. Hart, suspected him. (Mr. Hart had en- 
joined secrecy upon Philip and Margaret, and 
no one but the three knew of his loss.) As 
they never received any tidings of him, they 
settled that he had been lost in the storm, and 
they mourned him as one dead. 

Silver Creek township throve and flourished. 
New discoveries were made every week, and new 
leads of gold found in gullies and plains. Wil- 
liam Smith, always playing his cards well, know- 
ing that now the township was becoming a set- 
tled thing, there must soon be a government 
land sale, began to build and let, and to buy 
up rights of land wherever he could. Depend 
upon it he bought in the proper places, having 
settled, after careful survey, where it was im- 
perative that the streets would be laid out. 
You would have thought he had enough to do, 
what with one thing and another, but he seem- 
ed never to have his hands full. He was not 
of an envious disposition, but he did covet one 
thing — Philip’s quartz claim. • It was yielding 
finely, and he believed he saw a colossal fortune 
in it. Not to be made out of it in the way 
Philip and his mate were working it. No ; he 
would put up machinery. He would sink new 
shafts. The stuff should be drawn from the 
bottom of the shafts, not by hand but by steam 


40 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


power ; the men slioul d be lowered by steam ; 
lie would have a steam-engine below, if it 
was necessary. Every thing should be done 
by steam, and labor should be economized. 
Would that reduce the number of men neces- 
sary to work the claim? Not at all. Where 
there were a hundred men at work now, "W il- 
liam Smith would have five hundred. What 
he would do really would be to get ten times 
as much gold. He would open the claim to its 
fullest extent ; he would buy up as many claims 
as he could get hold of north and south of him, 
and would pay for them all liberally. 

You may ask why William Smith wanted to 
do this. He was making so rapid a fortune, 
that if things continued as they were for an- 
other twelve months, he would be at least a 
fifty - thousand pounds man. And in three 
years these figures would be doubled. A hun- 
dred thousand pounds ! When he was a brick- 
layer at home working for a bare pittance, on 
high scaffoldings at the risk of his life, the very 
idea of possessing such a sum would have been 
enough to take away his breath. Now he 
thought nothing of it. But he wanted Philip’s 
claim. For this reason : he burned to be a 
master of men, not of twenty, or fifty, or a hun- 
dred. He wanted to be a master of not fewer 
than five hundred men, all doing well under 
him, all living comfortably and being well paid, 
and if he had Philip’s claim, he saw his way to 
it. Then when he went home to the old coun- 
try, he could say to his old master, “ You 
thought it a great thing to have eighty men 
under you. Why, I, one of these eighty, went 
into a new country and employed five hundred, 
and every one of them had a house of his own 
and was well clothed, and could give his fami- 
ly meat for breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper; 
and after paying for every thing, and more be- 
sides, could put by thirty shillings a week in 
the savings-bank— in the savings-bank, which I 
started and am trustee of!” You see the old 
master used to cry out that working-men in 
the old country were better off than they were 
in any other part of the world. William Smith 
wanted to show him that he was wrong. 

So William Smith yearned to be king of five 
hundred men, and the proper complement of 
women and children— to be the master of five 
hundred pairs of hands — to see peace and plen- 
ty and industry all about him — to walk among 
his workmen, and chat and smile with them — 
to walk among the women and children, and 
pat the youngsters on the head, and pass kind 
words with the mothers. He had all these 
thoughts. It was not a bad ambition. 

He offered money for Philip’s claim— a very 
large sum. Philip and his mate shook their 
heads. Mr. Hart would have been glad to sell 
his share ; if he had one-eighth of what Wil- 
liam Smith offered, the white sails should spread 
for him over the seas for Home, dear Home. 
But he decided that it would be base to sell ; 
it would be like deserting Philip. “I’ll wait 
yet a little while,” he thought. “A few months 


will soon pass.” William Smith tempted him. 
Philip stood by. Mr. Hart declined, and saw 
in the look of joy which flashed into Philip’s 
face what pleasure his refusal had given the 
young man. 

The largest retorted cake of gold that had 
been produced for many a score of miles around 
was produced from a great crushing out of Phil- 
ip’s claim. It weighed no less than two thousand 
two hundred ounces. It was exhibited in the 
principal gold-broker’s window on a Saturday, 
which was the busiest day in the township. 
Then all the diggers and their wives and chil- 
dren came in from the hills and gullies, and 
made their purchases. A more bustling scene 
of its kind could not be witnessed in any part 
of the world. All day long the diggers and 
the women poured in, from east, from west, 
from north, from south. Where a store-keeper 
took ten pounds on another day, he took fifty 
on a Saturday. You should have seen the the- 
atre on Saturday nights ! 

The people stood round and about the gold- 
broker’s window, and those who were nearest 
stared and stared, and those who were farthest 
away peeped over their neighbors’ shoulders, at 
the great beautiful cake of gold, duly labeled. 
Two thousand two hundred ounces ! It made 
one’s mouth water. 

But on the Monday morning following this 
splendid exhibition, Philip going to his claim — 
he had spent the Sunday with Margaret — found 
the workmen standing about, in consultation. 
Some part of the shaft had fallen in, and they 
were waiting to know what to do. 

“Do!” exclaimed Philip. “Go down, of 
course.” 

And down he went, and made an anxious 
and critical examination. When he came up 
again he decided to get the government min- 
ing surveyor to report upon the condition of 
the shaft. This was done, and the surveyor 
gave certain directions. The shaft would have 
to be slabbed round all its sides for fifty feet 
from the surface — boxed in as it were. Until 
then it was not safe to work below. The slab- 
bing was done; it occupied a week, and cost 
some money. 

Philip fretted at the delay, and no one was 
glad but William Smith. He rejoiced. He 
had not one particle of malice in his nature, 
but he said quietly to himself, “ Smith, I’d like 
that claim to cave in from top to bottom. Per- 
haps they’d sell it to you then.” 

Margaret heard of the disaster— from Wil- 
liam Smith’s lips, I think. She turned white, 
and clung to Philip on the night she heard the 
new's. He was annoyed that she knew, but 
what was there to be frightened at ? he asked. 

“Frightened at!” she cried. “Oh Philip, 
how can you ask ? More of the shaft will fall 
in — ” 

“ How do you know that?” 

“ I know it — I feel it. And you will be un- 
derneath, perhaps — ” 

She could not proceed for her terror. He 


AT THE SIGN ©F THE SILVER FLAGON. 


41 


could not but feel glad at this solicitude for 
him, and he used lover’s arguments to prove 
that there was no danger. These arguments 
were sweet and delicious to her, but they had 
a contrary effect to that which he intended. 
Making her love him more, they made her mote 
anxious for his safety. 

“Promise me not to go down,” she begged ; 
“ promise me to work at the top.” 

“And let another man be crushed in my 
place !” he said proudly. She shuddered, and 
held him closer to her. “ Not if I know it !” 

“Then you don’t value my life ?” she cried, 
with womanly tact and womanly unreason. 

“ Your life, my dearest ! not value your life, 
when every hair of your head is precious to me!” 

“No,” she persisted, “you don’t value my 
life, when you are determined to risk it in this 

way.” 

•/ 

“ What are you talking about, Margaret ? I 
risk your life !” 

“Yes,” she cried, “you are about to do it. 
For if any thing happens to you, I shall die.” 

He had to promise her that he would not go 
down below, but he did not keep his word. It 
was not often he broke it, but here his man- 
hood was in question. He was not going to 
shirk his fair share of risk. He did not de- 
ceive Margaret long, however. She coaxed 
Mr. Hart to take her to the Reef one day, and 
did not scruple to tell him that Philip expected 
her. When they arrived at the shaft, she found 
that Philip was below. White from apprehen- 
sion, she walked a few yards away, and sat 
down upon the trunk of a tree, while the work- 
men, from a distance, gazed at her lithe and 
graceful form with respectful admiration. 

“Phil Rowe’s a lucky fellow,” they said. 

Mr. Hart passed the Avord do\yn for Philip 
to come up, and up he came, strong and hand- 
some, Avith the veins standing out on his bare 
arms and throat, a fair sight for a Avoman who 
loved him. But Margaret turned from him, 
and repulsed him, secretly admiring him all the 
Avhile for his courage. 

“ This is the way that men deceive Avomen,” 
she said — “promising one thing, and doing an- 
other.” 

Had she been a scholar, she might have flung 
at him the proverb, “False in one thing, false 
in all,” but she was only a woman in love. Be- 
sides, she Avould have knoAvn that there would 
have been no truth in the proA’erb, in this case; 
perhaps that Avould not have mattered, though. 
Women are queer logicians ; their logic comes 
from the heart, not from the head. 

“What can I do?” he asked, after listening 
to her reproaches. “Y T ou don’t Avant people 
to think me a coAA r ard, do you ?” 

“If they dared to say so!” she exclaimed, 
with a motion Avhich implied that she Avould 
defend him. 

“ They will say so if I do as jmu Avish,” he 
said ; her hand AA r as in his noAv ; he did not 
mind the Avorkmen seeing. “ No, no, Marga- 
ret. Your Avord shall be Iuav in eveiw thing 


but this. Women don’t understand these mat- 
ters.” She tossed her head disdainfully. “ Be- 
sides, don’t I Avant to grow rich for my Marga- 
ret’s sake?” 

“Rich !” she exclaimed. “ Why, you have 
thousands of pounds !” 

“I Avant thousands more to throrv into your 
lap.” 

She wavered a little, for just three seconds. 

“ No,” she said then, “ you don’t Avant thou- 
sands more, if your life is to be risked in the 
getting of them. Philip,” and she looked at 
him earnestly, “if you were a beggar, I should 
not care.” , 

“ Do you mean to say you Avould love me all 
the same ?” 

“Yes; and Avork for you, if it Avas necessa- 
ry. ” 

She meant it. HoAvever, she did not per- 
suade him to act as she wished. But things 
were Avorking in her favor. 

Within a feAv hours of this conversation, Phil- 
ip, still Avorking beloAV, made a discovery. They 
were preparing for a blast. He Avas holding the 
gad, Avhile a Avorkman Avas striking it on the 
head with his hammer. Half an inch this Avay 
or that, and Philip Avould have been maimed for 
life, but it Avas seldom a man Avas so unskillful 
as to cause an accident in this Avav. The hole 
for the gunpowder Avas tAvo feet deep Avhen Phil- 
ip took out the gad and spooned the dust out 
of the hole. The dust came up this time in a 
liquid state ; Philip looked anxious. When the 
hole was cleared, a little stream of Avater came 
bubbling up. They had struck Avater. It AA’as 
not very’ serious at first. They continued Avork- 
ing during the day, and fired the blast the last 
thing in the evening, before knocking off Avork. 
When Philip Avent doAvn the claim the next 
morning, he found himself up to his Avaist in 
Avater. They set to manfully, and bailed it out ; 
more than half the Avorking hours of the day 
were lost in this necessary labor. They dug 
a well, and so managed to keep themselves tol- 
erably dry ; but the AA’ater came in faster and 
faster. 

William Smith smiled and rubbed his hands. 
The claim Avas already as good as his ; *he be- 
gan already making bids for other claims, north 
and south. In his mind’s eye he mapped ev- 
ery thing out. He saAV himself king of this 
great range. He suav a happy village spring- 
ing up. Here should be this ; there should be' 
that. Tents for the diggers here ; a Avooden 
house for himself there. On this spot should 
be a church ; on that a school-house. He suav a 
Avell-dressed and happy congregation, his Avork- 
men and their families, Avalkingfrom the church 
on the Sabbath da} T , smiling and talking togeth- 
er; he saAV the children trooping out of the 
school-house after school hours, and the school- 
master standing in the porch, with his cane un- 
der his arm ; joy stirred in his heart as he fan- 
cied these things, and as he heard the shouts 
and hurras of the youngsters. There should 
be gardens too ; yes, every tent should have its 


42 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


garden. He saw the cabbages and pease com- 
ing up ; flowers also. He went to the highest 
point of the range, and folding his arms, looked 
down upon his kingdom. It had been a pleas- 
ure to him hitherto to ma-ke-money, but he had 
not thought much of it. He had made it so 
easily, that his heart had scarcely been fluttered 
by the success of his speculations. But now, as 
he contemplated the realization of his pet scheme, 
money was really sweet to him for the first time. 

The quartz crushing -machine hammered 
away as steadily as ever. The water in Phil- 
ip’s claim increased in volume every day. It 
served one good purpose. A race was made 
from the shaft to the dam, and a continual 
stream of water was running down it. 

“You ought to pay us for the water,” said 
Philip’s mate. 

“You ought to pay me for taking it,” said 
William Smith. 

Matters were growing serious. Out of ev- 
ery twelve hours they could work in the quartz 
but three. 

Yet I do not think that William Smith would 
have obtained the claim, if it had not been that 
a woman was on his side. 


XVI. 

MR. HART DECIDES TO WAIT A LITTLE LONGER. 

Margaret had a tender, yielding nature, but 
she was firm withal. It is surprising how de- 
termined these soft weaker vessels can be! 
And they generally get their way. If men, 
in addition to their naturally greater strength 
of character, possessed woman’s delicate cun- 
ning, great results would be accomplished. 
But men are deficient in finesse. The nature 
of many a great diplomatist has assimilated 
closely to that of a woman’s. A clever man 
can do fine things, but a clever woman with the 
same opportunities would beat him hollow. 

“Am I not growing pale?” asked Margaret 
of Philip, in a plaintive tone. 

Philip, gazing at her in tender solicitude, 
saw that she was a shade paler than usual. 

“And thin, Philip. Feel my arm.” He 
obeyed her. “ I am wasting away,” she said. 

Now, that Margaret was a little paler than 
usual is not to be disputed. She had contrived 
it ; by what means, I am not sufficiently in the 
mysteries to state. That she was any thinner, 
I dSny. Yet Philip thought differently from 
me. But he was in love with Margaret ; while 
I — No, I must not write what was about to 
glide off my pen. The pen tells many untruths, 
and I will not add one to the number on this 
occasion. I do love Margaret a little. 

“ You are working too hard,” said Philip. 

• “ No, it is not that,” sighed she. 

“ You want a rest, my darling.” 

“It would do me no good, Philip.” 

“You are worrying yourself about some- 
thing.” * 


She sighed. It was a most eloquent affirm- 
ative. Then Philip paused. He felt that he 
had touched dangerous ground. Seeing that 
Philip did not speak, she used her tongue. 

“Yes, I am indeed worrying myself about 
something. It will be the death of me, Phil- 
ip.” 

“Nonsense, my darling, nonsense.” 

“I should not speak of your death in that 
way, Philip!” He felt the ground crumbling 
beneath him. 

“You are in low spirits, Margaret. You 
must rouse yourself for my sake.” 

She shook her head. “I seem to have no 
strength left, Philip.” 

“Ah, that’s it,” he said eagerly, catching at 
a straw; “you are weak and low; you must 
eat strengthening things.” 

Soft-minded fellow ! as if, in her languid con- 
dition, she was not stronger than the strongest 
man ! 

“I had a dreadful dream the night before 
last, Philip.” 

“There! there! frightening yourself with 
fancies.” 

“They are killing me, Philip. I dreamed 
about you and the shaft. You were working 
at the bottom of it. I don’t know where I was 
standing, but dreams are such curious things, 
you know, Philip. I was standing there, and 
I saw you below, and I saw the men at the top, 
also, working. I saw right down the shaft, 
Philip, and all at once there was a great crying 
and screaming, and the men flew wildly about. 
The shaft had fallen in, and you were buried 
beneath tons and tons of earth. I could see 
you even then, holding out your hands to me, 
and crying to me to help you.” Margaret’s 
eyes were full of tears, and she shivered and 
cowered. And I declare I do not know how 
much of this was acting and how much was 
not. 

What could a man do under this sort of per- 
secution ? What could he do but yield ? 

“But, Margaret,” said Philip, “we are young, 
we are strong. It would be folly to go away 
from Silver Creek, where we are making so 
much money.” 

“ I don’t want to go away from Silver Creek,” 
she replied, her heart beating a little more 
quickly. “I love the place ; if it had not been 
for Silver Creek we might never have met, Phil- 
ip. I can show you a way to make more mon- 
ey than you are making at The Margaret Reef. 
Ah, how good it was of you to name it after 
me! Yes, I can show you how to make more 
money.” 

“You, little woman, you! Why, what is 
there in that pretty little head of yours ?” Ho 
took it between his hands and kissed her lips. 

“Look straight into my eyes, Philip. Don’t 
they sparkle ?” 

“ Sparkle, my dear little woman ! They are 
the stars in my heaven !” 

“But more than usual, Philip ! Are they 
not brighter than usual ?” She made them so. 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


43 


“Well, now, what makes them so bright just 
at this moment ? I’ll tell you without asking. 
I know you are going to say yes to what I shall 
propose, and that fills my heart with joy. My 
heart is in my eyes, because — because, Philip — 
Turn yours away, sir ! I don’t want you to look 
at me — Because, I think we might be married 
next week.” 

He caught her in his arms, and tried to raise 
her face to his ; but she hung her head, and 
murmured that she would never be able, for 
shame’s sake, to look at him again if he did not 
consent at once to what she proposed. 

“ Well, what is it, Margaret ? What is it ?” 
he asked, in a rapture of happiness. 

“I can’t tell you, Philip,” she murmured, 
with her lips close to his ear, “ unless you say 
yes beforehand.” 

“Yes, then,” he cried. “Yes, a thousand 
times over.” 

Who was the weaker vessel? Margaret or 
Philip ? Really, we have accustomed ourselves 
to believe in some very fine delusions. 

“Well, then,” she said, “buy Mr. Smith’s 
hotel and theatre. You will make more mon- 
ey in twelve months than you can get out of 
your claim in three years.” 

He was staggered at the suggestion, and was 
not displeased at it. But after a little consid- 
eration he said he was sure that Mr. Smith 
would not sell a property so valuable. Mar- 
garet knew better; she had seen more than 
Philip had of William Smith’s nature. Wil- 
liam Smith himself would have been surprised 
if he could have heard her summing-up of him. 
But it is the way with this kind of woman — and 
let me tell you her name is legion. You and 
she are in the same room for five minutes, and 
she never raises her eyes to your face, and 
when you go out she can make an inventory 
of you, from the way you part your hair down 
to the style of your shoe-strings. She knows 
a great deal better than you whether your 
clothes fit well or ill, and whether your hands 
and feet are nice, and I do not think you would 
care to consult her physiognomically. If you 
knew what was going on within that pretty lit- 
tle head of hers, while her eyes are directed 
demurely toward the carpet, it might make you 
uncomfortable. How she gained the power of 
discovering occult things is one. of the deep mys- 
teries. 

Margaret was one of this kind of woman. 
She had read William Smith through and 
through, and she talked and talked to Philip, 
until he said he would consult Mr. Hart. Mr. 
Hart was called in. He thought the idea a 
fine one ; he was filled with grave doubts of 
the safety of the shaft in which Philip was 
working, and in a lesser degree shared Marga- 
ret’s apprehensions. He also thought that Wil- 
liam Smith would bo willing to come to an ar- 
rangement. 

Suddenly Philip said, “I’ll do it on one con- 
dition, supposing it can be done. Mr. Hart 
must join us, and become ’a partner. You 


want to go home, I know, old fellow, but if 
you will stay with us for six months and see 
us fairly afloat, I’ll put you on the ship myself 
at the end of that time with a clear four thou- 
sand pounds in your pocket, and wish you 
good-bye, and God-speed. In less than two 
years Margaret and I will be after you.” 

Mr. Hart consented, without hesitation. He 
knew that the share of the gold he had received 
out of the claim would be required in the trans- 
action of the business, and he considered that 
Philip had a right to dispose of it. 

He was appointed agent to moot the pro- 
posal to William Smith, and carry it through 
if it was well received. Philip had not a suf- 
ficiently calm head for the transaction. Mr. 
Hart did his work well ; William Smith enter- 
tained the scheme, and of course made a good 
bargain. There was no delay. In four days 
(William Smith having bought out Philip’s 
mate) William Smith was master of the quartz 
reef, and Philip was proprietor of the Rose, 
Shamrock, and Thistle Hotel and Restaurant 
and the Theatre Royal, Silver Creek. As Mr. 
Hart had supposed, his money was required for 
the completion of the purchase. Philip enter- 
ed into his property free from debt, and with a 
good stock in hand, but with very little ready 
cash. William Smith had swept it all into his 
pocket. But it was a fair bargain. The hotel 
was doing a famous business, and money began 
to tumble in the first day. On that day the 
name of the hotel was changed. The sign- 
board hoisted up had on it the words, 

“The Silver Flagon.” 

So for the fourth time during the last seven 
years, Mr. Hart, having saved sufficient money 
to carry out the project nearest to his heart, 
decided to stay a little longer, and make a lit- 
tle more, before he took ship for home. But 
in this last instance, he could scarcely help him- 
self. Gratitude called upon him to do it, and 
he would be well rewarded for his patience. It 
was a consolation and a pleasure to reflect that 
the date of his departure was fixed. He had 
only six months to wait, and he would take 
with him a well-filled purse. He counted the 
days. On the sixth, Margaret and Philip were 
married by the registrar. I leave you to im- 
agine the festivities on the occasion ; how hand- 
some, strong, and brave Philip looked upon that 
happy morning, and what a fairy vision burst 
upon his gaze when Margaret appeared before 
him in her bridal dress. Margaret’s mother — a 
short pale woman (what lovely daughters many 
of these small thin women have!) — was there, 
approving of every thing. She had been an 
actress in her time, and, having had her ups 
and downs, was glad to see her daughter well 
and comfortably settled in life. But Margaret 
was a prize which any man might have been 
proud to win. The ceremony was necessarily 
a quiet and sober one, but there was plenty of 
feasting afterward. In the hotel there were 
well-spread tables during the whole of the day, 


44 


AT TIIE SIGN OF TIIE SILVER FLAGON. 


free to all comers. There was a private break- 
fast, at which Margaret’s mother shed tears, 
and William Smith and Mr. Hart made fine 
speeches. The bride was radiant. A hand- 
somer pair never was seen. They drove away 
amidst the cheering of a thousand gold-diggers. 

In the evening they sat together on the banks 
of a beautiful river, rather low in its bed at the 
time because of the heat. On the distant hills 
cattle were browsing and smelling for water. 
The only sound that reached their ears was the 
sound of the woodman’s axe. That came 
through the air sharp and clear, although the 
woodman was a long way off. The lovers, 
now man and wife, talked in low tones of their 
future, and laid their plans. All was smooth 
before them. No rough roads, no sickness, no 
misfortunes. Sunshine was in their hearts, and 
there was no shadow in the bright clouds that 
floated above them. 

“All your acting days are over now,” said 
Philip. 

“ Well,” replied Margaret, “I must act at 
home.” 

“All right,” responded Philip; “one stipu- 
lation, though. No more than two characters 
in any of our pieces.” 

She laughed at this. 

“ Philip, I hope you love mother.” 

“ I do love her: she is a dear little woman.” 

“Do you know that when she was young 
she was the most beautiful creature that ever 
was seen ?” 

“How could she have had such a lovely 
daughter if she had not been lovely herself?” 

“Nonsense, Philip ; but she was. She has 
the remains of it now. Have you noticed her 
teeth ? They are like pearls. And her hands ? 
Much smaller than mine ! She must have been 
a beautiful actress, too ; she has had verses 
written about her in the papers. She acted in 
the Plymouth and Exeter theatres, and was a 
wonderful favorite. She had dozens and doz- 
ens of offers, and what do you think one of her 
lovers was, Philip ? Well, but you would nev- 
er guess. He was a Jew, and I really think 
mother was fond of him a little, little bit, from 
the way she talks about him. He must have 
been a good man, but of course mother couldn’t 
marry a Jew. Wasn’t it a mercy she didn’t, 
Philip, for then what would have become of 
me — and you ? I want you to love her very, 
very, very much ; more than you do me, Philip.” 

“ I can’t do that, my darling ; but I do love 
'her, and will, both for her own sake and yours, 
my dearest, dearest ! And so we are man and 
wife, darling! I can scarcely believe in my 
happiness. You’ll not melt away out of iny 
arms, will you, Margaret ?” 

“ Not if you’re very good to me, Philip,” she 
replied, with a tender nestling motion. “ Look 
at that beautiful cloud, dear.” 

“It is coming over us, and it is shaped like 
an angel. I want to hear you say you love me, 
Margaret. ” 

“Philip!” 


XVII. 

THEY FLEW LIKE MADMEN INTO THE TOWN. 

Mr. Hart took some interest in home poli- 
tics — that is to say, in the politics of the old 
country ; Philip took none. Every nook and 
corner of his mind was filled by one idea, 
which presented itself in a hundred different 
shapes : that idea was Margaret. 

The Overland Mail came into Silver Creek 
once a month, pretty regularly, with letters and 
papers from home ; and if you had seen the 
post-office on the day the four- horse coach 
brought the mails, you would never have for- 
gotten the sight. Crowds stood around the 
doors and windows of the wooden building, for 
up to the present time every building in Silver 
Creek township was either drill, calico, or wood. 
There was some talk of a stone building, and 
when this was once up you may be sure that 
others would soon follow. Well, around the 
wooden post-office, hundreds and hundreds of 
men and women were assembled when the 
Overland Mail arrived, waiting for the windows 
to open so that they might receive their letters. 
If the mail came in somewhat later than usual, 
the clerks at the post-office would be kept at 
work until late in the night sorting the letters 
and the newspapers, to allay the anxiety of the 
people. News from home ! Ah, you who have 
not been a wanderer, and parted from friends 
and relations and all whom you love, do not 
know what those words mean ! The faces of 
those who received letters from home through 
the little window lit up with joy ; they laughed 
at the well-known handwriting, and their eyes 
filled with tears. Ah, this is from mother. 
Dear old mother! What a queer hand she 
writes ! And this from the old boy ! And 
this from Jim ! And this from Arthur! And 
these from Mary, and Fanny, and Nelly, and 
Kate, and I don’t know whom all besides! 
There was electricity in the very envelopes, 
which went from the tips of the fingers, when 
the paper was touched, into the palm of the 
hand— where hers, and hers, and hers, lay once 
upon a time— up the arm, straight into the 
heart, and illumined faces there. Very plain- 
ly illumined them, I can tell you. Old faces, 
young faces, wrinkles and cheeks of peach, eyes 
dim and bright, parched lips and lips sweetly 
fresh, horny fingers and soft, white hair and 
brown — all were plain and visible, looking, 
smiling, speaking to those who held their let- 
ters in their hands. They did not take the let- 
ters home to read ; they opened them there and 
then, and stood about reading ; and their eyes 
sparkled, and they grew sad and tender and 
joyous and pensive, as the news moved them. 
Those who received no letters walked slowly 
and mournfully away. 

Always for two or three days previous to the 
arrival of the mail Mr. Hart became restless 
and anxious and impatient. Perhaps it would 
come in a day or two earlier, and he was always 
hoping that it would. The coach stopped at 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


45 


the hotel, and Mr. Hart would run to the door, 
and cry out to Levy the driver, “Brought the 
mail, Lee ?” 

He was in that state now, some six weeks 
after the marriage of Philip and Margaret. 
The mail really was due, and the coach had 
come in without it. When Levy, who had 
driven all the way this time, left town for Sil- 
ver Creek, the mail - ship, was not signaled at 
the Heads. It was a great disappointment to 
Mr. Hart. 

Every thing was going on well. Since Philip 
bought the hotel, the business had increased, as 
it would have done under William Smith’s man- 
agement. Silver Creek was growing more 
prosperous every day, and these things were 
natural. Philip was a favorite ; so was Mr. 
Hart. As for Margaret, the gold-diggers would 
flock to the hotel, and hang about, and talk, and 
drink, only on the chance of catching a sight 
of her ; and Margaret knew this, and did not 
disappoint them. “ There she is !” they would 
say. The sight of her did them good. And 
when she walked out, admiring eyes followed 
her at every step. No lady in the world was 
more genuinely respected and more highly 
thought of. 

I was almost forgetting to state a little inci- 
dent. Upon Philip’s return from his honey- 
moon, he said to Mr. Hart, when they two were 
alone together, 

“I want you to take care of this packet for 
me, and to promise me one thing.” 

He handed Mr. Hart a sealed envelope, on 
which no name or address was written. There 
was an inclosure in it, somewhat bulky. 

“What is the promise, Philip?” asked Mr. 
Hart, taking the envelope. 

“ That you will not, under any consideration, 
give it to me until we meet in the old country. 
I don’t want to be tempted.” 

These singular words caused Mr. Hart to ask 
questions, but Philip would not answer them. 

“I want you to accept this trust uncondi- 
tionally,” he said ; and as he was evidently 
very anxious in the matter, Mr. Hart gratified 
him, and placed the envelope in a safe corner 
of his pocket-book. 

Philip had commenced business on a straight- 
forward plan, of which Mr. Hart fully approved, 
lie took no credit, and when he sent an order to 
town he sent the money with it. Being desir- 
ous to make money fast, he cast his eyes farther 
afield than selling wine and grog and beer re- 
tail to the diggers.' Why should they not be- 
come wine and spirit merchants ? He consult- 
ed Mr. Hart ; the old man was satisfied to leave 
every thing to Philip, who went to work with 
the spirit of William Smith. In a very short 
time a great wooden shell was built, and large 
orders were sent to town for wines and spirits. 
On the day the mail was expected, a long string 
of bullock -drays wound its way slowly along 
High Street, Silver Creek, and stopped at the 
great wooden shell, which was the new whole- 
sale wine and spirit store, belonging to Philip 


and Mr. Hart. The bullock -drays contained 
the stock, the invoices of which had totted up 
to no less than eight thousand pounds. Philip 
had been sending money through the post ev- 
ery day in payment of this fine stock of goods ; 
about one thousand pounds remained to be 
paid, and on the day following the arrival of 
the bullock-drays, a draft for this amount was 
sent to the merchants. Every shilling in the 
place had to be scraped together to make up 
the sum. 

“Now we’re all right,” said Philip, cheerful- 
ly ; “ we don’t owe a shilling in the world, and 
we have at least eleven thousand pounds’ worth 
of stock on hand. We’ll open the new store 
to-morrow. Margaret, in twelve months we'll 
be on our way to Devonshire.” 

That evening the mail from home arrived at 
Silver Creek. Mr. Hart was soon at the post- 
office. There was a letter for him from his 
darling child, a letter which made his eyes run 
over. William Smith had sent in during the 
day from The Margaret Reef, asking Mr. Hart 
to inquire if there were any letters for him at 
the post-office. There was one from William 
Smith’s mother, and Mr. Hart started off to The 
Margaret Reef to deliver it to his old friend. 
He called in at the hotel to ask if there was any 
message for William Smith. 

“Tell him,” said Philip, blithely, “that I 
think we’ve got the best of the bargain.” 

“At all events,” said Mr. Hart, “ I shall tell 
him that you are quite satisfied with it. Any 
message, Margaret ?” 

“ Give him my love,” replied Margaret, “ and 
say we’re all coming to dine with him next Sun- 
day, and that he’s to get something nice for din- 
ner.” 

Mr. Hart nodded and walked away. He 
was in a tender and serious mood. The let- 
ter from his daughter had somewhat disturbed 
him. Its tone was as affectionate as usual'; 
but hidden in its words, like the scent of the 
flower in its leaves, was a confession of unhap- 
piness. It was not expressed in so many words. 
The writer told him this and that, as. she was 
in the habit of doing, and a stranger reading it 
would have said, “It is a happy girl who wrote 
this letter.” But Mr. Hart read with the heart 
of a father, and he fancied he saw what would 
not have been visible to others. lie seemed 
to hear his daughter whisper to him to come 
home and counsel and advise her — to come 
home and love and protect her. It ma’de him 
terribly uneasy. 

“ When the six months are up,” he thought, 
“I will not wait another day. Father and 
daughter should be together; she is just of the 
age when a girl most needs a father’s love and 
care. Thank God, there is not long to wait ; 
in a little more than four months I shall turn 
my back on Silver Creek.” 

And yet the thought brought a certain re- 
gret with it. Silver Creek had been a good 
place for him, and he had cause to bless the- 
day he entered it with his company of actors 


4G 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


and actresses and his weak-kneed horse. He 
paused at the foot of The Margaret Reef, and 
thought of the first day he had seen it, and 
how he paused then to ask himself whether he 
should ascend it or not. 

“ The happiness of lives hangs upon chance,” 
he said. “If I had not ascended this hill, I 
should not have made the acquaintance of Phil- 
ip in the way I did. We should not have been 
together now, and I should not have had the 
means of joining my 'child and making her life 
happy. Four thousand pounds ! Aha ! Ger- 
ald! Fly away, time ! ” He called it out, like 
a boy. 

He found William Smith in all his glory. 
The hill was alive with men. Philip’s claim 
was in full work; a steam-engine was at the 
top of it, puffing and blowing day and night, 
pumping up the water. The William Smith 
quartz crushing -machine was thumping away 
merrily. Fresh veins of golden quartz had been 
discovered, and were being worked. Some of 
the workmen’s slab huts were already erected, 
and the plots for kitchen -gardens laid out. 
Two or three score of goats were scampering 
about ; in the fowl-houses roosted five hundred 
head of poultry ; women were hanging clothes 
on the lines to dry ; children were running af- 
ter one another, and playing. William Smith 
was supremely happy and satisfied with him- 
self. He stood there, dusty and brown, with his 
sleeves tucked up, a king. He conducted Mr. 
Hart over the ground, and showed him what he 
had done, and told him what he intended to do. 
Every thing was planned and arranged in an 
admirable way. William Smith, in this carry- 
ing out of his ambition, was an enthusiast, but 
he was no dreamer. He was a practical man 
to the edges of his nails. 

“ I will ride back with you,” he said to Mr. 
Hart, “ and sleep at The Silver Flagon to-night, 
if you will stop with me till ten o’clock.” 

Mr. Hart consented, and went among the 
workmen and talked with them while William 
Smith read his mother’s letter. They had sup- 
per together, and a pipe afterward, and sat out- 
side William Smith’s wooden house, which had 
a fine broad veranda all round it. 

“ See this place in twelve months,” said Wil- 
liam Smith, “and you’ll not know it.” 

“I shall be away then,” said Mr. Hart, “ and 
shall be hearing one day that you are at the 
head of the government.” 

It was not by any means a wild supposition. 

Night crept on. The day-men were at home 
enjoying their ease ; music w'as heard in various 
tents. There was no moon. At a little before 
ten o’clock it was dark. No part of Silver 
Creek township could be seen from The Mar- 
garet Reef. Exactly at ten o’clock Mr. Hart 
and William Smith -were in the saddle. 

They rode slowly. Over one range, over an- 
other, along a valley, up another range. 

“ We shall see the township soon,” said Wil- 
liam Smith. “ What are you stopping for ?” 

Mr. Hart had reined up suddenly. 


“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Hart; “some- 
thing in the air. Look up ; what is that light 
in the sky ?” 

A pale red light was coming in the clouds. 

“The moon rising,” said William Smith. 

“ There is no moon to-night.” 

“Ah, no ; I forgot.” 

They rode up the range ; it was steep and 
stony, and their horses stepped carefully ; the 
light in the sky became stronger — more lurid. 
Up they toiled ; they were nearly at the top. 
They spoke not a word to each other, but their 
anxious eyes were fixed upon the sky. Deep- 
er and deeper grew the color, wider and wider 
it spread ; and a sound like a muffled roar 
seemed to come to their ears. 

“Now then,” cried William Smith to his 
horse, and gently touching it with his whip. 
“ Up with you, my lad.” 

The horses leaped onward, and when they 
reached the top of the ridge, stopped suddenly, 
in obedience to the action of their riders. 

“ Great God !” cried Mr. Hart ; “ the town- 
ship is on fire !” 

They saw now the meaning of the lurid sky. 
A vast sheet of flame was before them, extend- 
ing this way and that, licking up every thing 
before it. They could hear the dull roar of 
the fire and the cries of the people, who were 
rushing wildly about. They paused but for 
one instant. The next they were galloping 
madly toward the township; their horses need- 
ed no urging, they flew like the wind. 

“Are you insured ?” shouted William Smith. 

“Not for a penny,” answfered Mr. Hart, with 
a spasm in his throat. 

“ The stores will burn like tinder,” muttered 
William Smith, between his clenched teeth. 

They flew like madmen into the town. 


XVIII. 

DRIVEN BY LOVE INTO THE JAW T S OF DEATH. 

By the time Mr. Hart and William Smith 
reached the township, there was a straight sheet 
of fire, more than a mile in length. At least 
three hundred stores were in flames. Silver 
Creek could boast of a volunteer fire brigade, 
and the brave fellows worked at their two small 
fire-engines with the perspiration pouring down 
their faces in streams, but they might as well 
have pumped wmter into the Creek for all the 
good they did. However, they worked away, 
approaching as close as they dared to the im- 
mense body of flame ; those who were closest 
to the burning stores directed their hose against 
the blazing rafters, while their comrades pumped 
upon them to prevent their catching fire. The 
shouting, the screaming, the confusion were ter- 
rible ; loud cries ran along and about the crowd 
with the rapidity of the flame itself, and every 
few moments another store on each side of the 
fire caught light. Strange to say, no attempt 
was made to stop the fire by pulling down the 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


47 


bftildings on either side, and so create a gap 
across which the flames could not leap. The 
only thought that people had was to save their 
goods ; but even as it was, very little was pre- 
served from destruction. 

When Mr. Hart and his companion plunged 
into the crowd, their first thought, of course, 
was of the hotel and theatre. 

“Ah,” said one and another, “ here’s Mr. 
Hart ! Here’s William Smith !” 

They made way for these two men, who ran 
rapidly along, and found that the hotel had just 
caught fire. 

“Where’s Margaret? where’s Philip?” cried 
Mr. Hart, with anxious glances around. 

At that moment he cared not one pin for the 
destruction of his property ; he saw the flames 
beggaring him, but he paid no heed to them. 
Time to think of that afterward. All that he 
eared for now tvas the safety of Margaret and 
Philip. 

“ Where’s Margaret ? Where’s Philip ?” he 
cried. 

Some man among the crowd answered, that 
Margaret had last been seen going into the ho- 
tel before the fire had reached it, and that she 
had not come out. 

“ Good God !” groaned Mr. Hart, and would 
have plunged into the flames but that they held 
him back. 

At that moment Philip, "who had been work- 
. ing half a mile away, saving life and property 
with the strength of a young Hercules, was run- 
ning toward the hotel. Amidst the excitement 
of rushing into the blazing stores, and pulling 
sleeping children and weak women out of the 
jaws of death, he had not thought of his own 
property, and did not know that it was on fire. 
Indeed, no man would have conceived it possi- 
ble that the flames could have reached the ho- 
tel in so short a time. Now, Philip said to him- 
self, he must get to his own place, and see what 
was best to be done. He was a little bit con- 
cerned about Margaret. “ I must get her away 
from this,” he thought. “When I see her in 
a place of safety, -I can come back and do my 
work.” But as he ran toward his hotel, the 
rumor ran from it that it w T as burning. 

“The Silver Flagon’s caught,” shouted the 
diggers, one to another, and the news was car- 
ried along past Philip, w r ho received it as he ran. 

“Ah,” he muttered, with a great sigh, 
“ there’s an end to that ! We are ruined men. 
Poor Mr. Hart ! poor Mr. Hart ! And I per- 
suaded him to stop !” • • 

The thought that he himself was ruined 
scarcely disturbed him. Ruined ! How could 
he be ruined, when he had Margaret? His 
heart was almost light as he thought of his 
darling w r oman, but in the same moment his 
hair seemed to rise from his head with horror 
as he heard some one say, 

“ The Silver Flagon’s down, and Mrs. Rowe’s 
inside !” 

“What! what!” he muttered, dazed for a 
moment, and then he screamed, “ Oh my God !” 


and, with a cry so terrible as to startle all who 
heard it, he plunged madly toward the spot 
where he had last seen his beloved. He 
reached it, hot, black, panting, with his hair 
streaming to his shoulders, and his blue eyes 
gleaming wildly. 

“Keep him back! Keep him back!” they 
sh&uted, and laid hands on him. 

But he dashed them aside as though they 
had been so many feathers, and, with knitted 
brows and lips tightly closed, and breast that 
heaved as though it would burst, he ran with 
swift desperation into the flames. A spasm of 
horror rose to the throat of every looker-on, 
and kept him silent for a moment. During 
that brief moment, which seemed an hour, 
their eyes were strained in the direction of 
Philip’s flying form. They could see him beat- 
ing the flames away with one hand, while his 
other arm was raised to save his eyes from the 
fire. Only for a moment was their attention 
thus occupied ; the sound of a familiar voice 
fell upon their ears ; they turned, and to their 
amazement, saw Margaret moving among them. 
Her hair was hanging loose, and she Avas seek- 
ing for Philip’s face among the throng of beard- 
ed men. She knew all the faces that were 
about her, but she did not recognize one of 
them until she saw Mr. Hart’s. To him she 
ran, and asked if he knew where Philip was. 
The men still had their hands upon him ; the 
look of horror in his face answered her. Fol- 
lowing the direction of his eyes, which were 
fixed upon the burning hotel, she in her turn 
saw the outline of her Philip’s form struggling 
through the flames. All this was the work of 
two moments. 

“Philip! Philip!” she screamed, and ran 
toward him. 

It was useless how to attempt to hold Mr. 
Hart ; he broke from the prison of their arms 
as easily as Philip had done, and w r ound his 
around Margaret. 

“ Oh, merciful God !” she screamed, tearing 
at the air. “Philip! Philip! I am here! 
Margaret is here !” 

All on fire as he was, her voice reached him ; 
he made an effort to escape, and by love’s in- 
stinct in the direction where Margaret was. 
But he fell among some falling rafters, and 
seemed to be of them ; and as he fell, a gasp 
of mingled anguish and joy escaped his burst- 
ing heart ; it sounded like “Margaret !” Then 
Mr. Hart, with swift and furious action, resigned 
Margaret to the arms of the miners, and flew 
into the flames toward his friend. All the 
strength and dexterity of his youth came back 
to him ; he had marked the exact spot where 
Philip had fallen, and he darted to it with an 
eagle’s keen sight, and rushed out of the flames, 
dragging Philip’s insensible form after him. 
They were both on fire ; but fifty buckets of 
water were poured over them with lightning 
rapidity, and a hundred willing arms wore 
stretched forth to bear them tenderly to a 
place of safety. 


AT TIIE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


" 48 

XIX. 

“DEAR OLD fellow! GOD BLESS MARGARET 
AND YOU!” 

The sun rose next morning upon a sad sight. 
High Street, Silver Creek, was nothing but a 
long line of ruins. More than five hundred 
stores had been burned to the ground. All over 
the gold diggings work was suspended, and the 
diggers flocked in to see the sight. They did 
not stand idly by ; they tucked up their sleeves, 
and every European and American there gave 
a day’s work for nothing. William Smith sent 
orders to The Margaret Reef : The William 
Smith quartz crushing -machine was stopped, 
and all the workmen came in to lend a helping 
hand. They did wonders under William Smith’s 
directions ; he was to many what sound wine is 
to enfeebled bodies. He strengthened, sym- 
pathized, encouraged, all in a breath, and set 
a fine example by working as zealously as the 
most zealous. It was not with him, “ Do as I 
say,” but “Do as I do.” The first duty of the 
workers was a solemn one : to find the ashes 
of those who had been burned to death in the 
fire. Five persons were known to have perished 
— among them Margaret’s mother. Strangely 
enough, no one had thought of her while the fire 
was raging ; in the larger interest that centred 
around Margaret and Philip this poor little 
quiet woman had been forgotten. Very ten- 
derly and gently were the remains of the dead 
gathered from the ruins ; they were but black- 
ened cinders, which crumbled almost at the 
touch, and awe and grief were on the faces of 
the rough men as they deposited the sad heaps 
in ground made sacred by its burden, and cov- 
ered them over with blankets. This duty per- 
formed, their thoughts turned to other and more 
cheerful matters, and they bustled briskly about. 
Before noon twenty canvas tents were up, at a 
little distance from the street — the ground there 
was as yet too hot to build upon— and twenty 
burned -out storekeepers had re -commenced 
business. So great were the bustle and anima- 
tion, that the sufferers really had no time to be 
faint-hearted. Every man’s example was an 
encouragement to his neighbor ; emulation was 
excited, and all strove to outvie each other. 
But we must, away from the scene — nearer ties 
claim our attention. In a week Silver Creek 
township will seem scarcely the worse for its 
terrible conflagration. Business will be carried 
on as usual, and the building of new stores will 
be going on from one end of High Street to the 
other. None will be put up of canvas. Most 
of them will be built of wood, and a few of 
stone. Thus cities are made. Experience 
teaches. 

In a large tent, on the Camp Ground where 
the government buildings are erected, are three 
persons. Mr. Hart, with his left arm in a sling, 
is standing by the side of a low bed, gazing 
mournfully down ; so rapidly was his noble task 
accomplished, when he rushed into the flames 
to save his friend, that he escaped with very lit- 


tle injury. He was scorched and burned, but 
not seriously, his left arm being the part of him 
which had suffered the most. The physical 
part of him, I should say ; for all that was men- 
tal in him was quivering with anguish. At his 
feet, on the ground, sits Margaret. Our Mar- 
garet ? Yes ; although you would not have be- 
lieved, had you only your own eyes to trust for 
confirmation. Her flesh was so colorless that 
every drop of blood seemed to have left her body ; 
but your imagination will supply a better pic- 
ture of this hapless broken-hearted young crea- 
ture than my pen can draw. On the low bed 
by which she is sitting, with misery and despair 
in her heart and face, lies a black mass which 
once was Philip, which is Philip still, for a few 
brief hours. 

For he was not dead when Mr. Hart dragged 
him from the flaming walls ; the life had not 
been quite burned out of him ; but he was dy- 
ing fast now. “ Before the sun rises,” said the 
doctors, with sad meaning in their voices. It 
was most merciful that it should be so ; for had 
he lived the full span of man’s life he would 
never again have seen the light, nor could any 
person have looked upon his face without a 
shudder of pain. 

They could do nothing for him except to 
shed upon him the light of their pitiful love ; 
and blackened and burned as he was, this sweet 
and divine compassion, in some strange way, 
reached his senses, and if his lips could be said 
to smile, they smiled in grateful acknowledg- 
ment. “Poor Philip! Poor soul! Dear, 
dearest love !” they murmured, and their words 
were not lost. They were to him as water, 
cold and sweet and clear, is to a parched mouth. 
Even in the darkness through which he was 
struggling, blind, impotent, helpless, glimpses 
of delicious light broke upon his suffering soul. 

A hundred times Margaret was on the point 
of giving way, but Mr. Hart whispered to her, 

“ Be strong, my dear child, be strong ! Your 
voice is to him as the dew to a flower.” 

“As the dew to a flower!” she murmured. 
“ God pity him ! God pity me ! He was my 
life, and he is going.” 

“To another world, dear child,” he said to 
her, in a beautiful soft voice, “ where we shall 
join him in God’s good time.” 

And as though he had a thing to do which 
was necessary for Philip’s comfort, the old man 
went swiftly out of the tent, and groaned and 
wept there, where Margaret could not see him. 
Then raised his eyes from the earth, and mute- 
jy prayed that peace might come to Margaret’s 
troubled soul. 

She, moistening Philip’s lips with, pure spring 
water, never moved from her husband’s side, 
and prayed that she might die with him. If 
God is merciful, she thought, He will take me 
also. 

William Smith came to the tent, but when 
Margaret saw him she shivered, and held her 
hands before her eyes to shut him from her 
sight. The man needed no other sign ; straight 


49 


AT THE SIGN OE THE SILVER ELAGON. 


from the tent he walked, and sat outside, talk- 
ing to Mr. Hart. He was not angry with her; 
his heart was very tender to hef and Philip. 

“ It is natural that she should not wish to 
see me,” he said to Mr. Hart ; “ it was in the 
house that once was mine that Philip met his 
death. If I had not wanted Philip’s claim, 
they might have lived together happily.” Af- 
ter this touch of sentiment he became practi- 
cal. 

“Have you any money?” 

“A few shillings.” 

William Smith put fifty pounds into Mr. 
Hart’s hands. 

“Let him want nothing,” he said. 

“He will want nothing presently,” sighed 
Mr. I^art, beneath his breath. 

“ Come to me if you want any thing,” added 
William Smith. 

You who know what beautiful tenderness 
lies in human nature can imagine in what ways 
it was shown to Margaret and Philip. Wom- 
en came with sweet offerings during all the day. 
Had fifty men been dying, instead of one, there 
would have been supplies for them all. Milk, 
honey, flowers, jellies, broths, were sent from 
all quarters ; they were laid aside, for there 
was no use for them, but they were good tokens 
to give and to receive. 

In the night, about eleven o’clock, Mr. Hart 
observed Margaret’s head move closer to Phil- 
ip’s lips ; he knelt on the ground on the other 
side of Philip’s bed, and heard the dying man 
whisper, 

“ Margaret — my beloved — my darling — Mar- 
garet, my heart ! Margaret, I love you — love 
you — love you !” 

• Eor an hour these were the only words he 
murmured, at intervals, in many different ways. 

“Do you know me, dearest?” she asked: 
“do you hear me? It is Margaret who is 
speaking. Your Margaret.” 

“My Margaret!” he whispered. His voice 
was like the murmurs of the softest breeze. 
Margaret, with 'open lips, received his dying 
words in her mouth. With what pangs of love 
and anguish did she receive them ! 

Mr. Hart, during an interval of silence, mo- 
tioned to Margaret. Might he speak to Philip ? 
Margaret’s hand crept across the bed to the old 
man’s. Lover and friend were joined above 
Philip’s breast. 

“Philip, my dear boy,” said Mr. Hart, “do 
you know my voice ?” 

“Dear old fellow!” came presently from 
Philip. “ Noble old fellow ! I saw you. God 
bless Margaret and you !” 

All their strength was required for compos- 
ure ; they checked their sobs, so that the sound 
of them might not disturb him ; he could not 
see the tears that ran down their faces. 

Later in the night, as death approached near- 
er and nearer, Philip’s voice grew stronger, and 
the broken words he sighed denoted that he 
knew they were by his side, and that he was 
dving. He had seen Mr. Hart flving to his 

4 


rescue, and he thanked him in a few sobbing 
words uttered at long intervals. 

“Take care of Margaret,” he whispered; 
“be a father to her.” The utterance of the 
word brought other memories. “Dear old 
dad ! I hoped to see you, and show you my 
darling. But John Hart will bring her to you. 
Dear old dad ! love Margaret !” 

Then his thoughts wandered, and he mur- 
mured expressions of affection toward The Sil- 
ver Flagon — the dear old Silver Elagon — and 
always in connection with Margaret. All his 
thoughts clustered about the one supreme im- 
age that dwelt in his mind, the image of Mar- 
garet. 

Mr. Hart whispered to Margaret to ask him 
the address of his father in the old country, for 
strange to say he had never told them ; but all 
that they could get from him now were fitful 
words, in which darling Margaret, The Silver 
Elagon, his dear old dad, and his faithful friend, 
were mentioned without connection. 

An hour later, his whispered words denoted 
that his memory was wandering to the happy 
hours he had spent behind the scenes with 
Margaret ; then he was riding for flowers for 
Margaret : “ Oh, if it’s for that !” he murmur- 
ed, repeating the words of the woman who had 
sold him the flowers ; and then, “An echo stole 
it, and I heard it singing Margaret as I rode on. 
I listened to her heart, and she said it beat for 
me ; she loves me ; she loves me!” He murmur- 
ed these last words, as though in happier days 
he had been in the habit of whispering them as 
a charm. Presently his feeble fingers seemed 
to be seeking for something, and Mr. Hart, di- 
vining that he was seeking for the flowers he 
had bought for Margaret, placed near to his 
face a bunch that had been brought to the tent 
as a love-offering. A sigh escaped from the 
poor burned bosom, and after that Philip did 
not speak again. 

So the night crept on, and silence reigned 
within and without the tent. They could 
scarcely hear Philip’s breathing ; and when the 
morning’s light was trembling below the hori- 
zon, and the quivering in the skies denoted that 
day was awaking, he lay an inanimate mass be- 
fore them. They did not know it for a long 
time. William Hart was the first to discover 
it. With a solemn look in his eyes, he drew 
up the white sheet, and softly, tenderly covered 
the face of his friend. With white lips and 
bursting pupils Margaret watched the action, 
and when the form of what once was Philip 
was only indicated by the outlines of the white 
sheet which covered him, her strength gave 
way, and with a groan of anguish she sank upon 
the ground. Then it was that Mr. Hart felt 
the want of woman’s help. He -went out of the 
tent to obtain it, and found William Smith sit- 
ting on the ground a few yards away. He had 
sat there throughout the whole of that sad 
night. 

“ It is all over,” said Mr. Hart, with sighs 
and sobs. 


50 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


“Poor Philip! Poor dear lad!” said Wil- 
liam Smith, and made no effort to keep back 
the tears. 

They went together to the camp, and brought 
back a woman with them, who raised Marga- 
ret from the ground, and otherwise attended to 
her. Her state was truly pitiable; and the 
worst aspect of it was that her grief seemed to 
have dried up the fountain of her tears. 

“If she would only cry !” thought Mr. Hart, 
as she gazed at him with her despairing, tear- 
less eyes. 

He was her only comfort. She turned from 
all others with shuddering aversion, and had 
she been able, she would have refused, and not 
with gentleness, their kind offices. Truth was, 
she hated the place in which her love had died, 
and hated the people who lived in it. It was 
unreasonable in her, but it was so. 

She asked for her mother, and they were com- 
pelled to tell her the sad truth. She grasped 
Mr. Hart’s hand convulsively. 

“You are my only friend now,” she said; 
“you tried to save my Philip. You were al- 
ways good to him — ah, yes ! he told me all, and 
was never tired of speaking of you. Do not 
you desert me, or I shall go mad ! ” 

“I will take care of you, child. I promised 
Philip.” 

She kissed his hand with her dry lips. 

On the day of Philip’s funeral, all the stores 
in Silver Creek closed their doors, and the store- 
keepers and the diggers and their wives, to the 
number of three thousand and more, followed 
to the grave the body of a man whom all had 
loved and respected. 

In the evening, Mr. Hart sat, sad and alone, 
outside his tent, and for the first time since the 
death of his friend thought of himself. Again 
he was a beggar, and the image of his daughter 
seemed to recede in the clouds as he gazed at 
them mournfully, and a plaintive whisper of 
Farewell seemed to come to him from over the 
hills. “I shall never have the heart to com- 
mence again,” he said to himself, “never, nev- 
er! My life is over; my hopes, my dreams, 
have come to an end.” 

“What are you thinking of?” asked a kind 
voice. 

It was William Smith who spoke. To this 
man Mr. Hart told his grief. 

“Didn’t I tell you to come to me if you 
wanted any thing?” cried William Smith, in 


reproachful tones. “And here you are, throw- 
ing me over, and saying you haven’t a friend 
in the world. You want to go home and see 
your little girl — well,' it’s natural, and I wish I 
could accompany you and see my old mother. 
But you shall go and see her instead, and you 
shall tell her that you came straight from her 
Billy, and you shall paint before her old eyes 
a picture of The Margaret Reef and The Wil- 
liam Smith quartz crushing -machine, bang- 
banging away, pounding out the gold for W. 
S. Here are ten twenty-pound notes ; get gold 
for them, and start for the port to-morrow. 
Oh, don’t fret ! I never give away nothing for 
nothing. I want a picture of my old mother’s 
face, just as you see it, a day or two after you 
land in the old country. You’re a painter, and 
can paint it, and here’s payment in advance. 
There aren’t many men in the world that Wil- 
liam Smith would trust, but you’re one of them. 
No wonder Philip loved you. I love you ! 
As I hope to be saved, I love you ! And — 
there! — I don’t intend to say another word. 
Good-bye, dear old fellow, and God Almighty 
bless you !” 

And William Smith pressed the old man in 
his arms, and ran down the hill in a stumbling 
fashion, for he was almost blinded by his tears ; 
while Mr. Hart, like one in a dream, gazed af- 
ter his retreating figure until it was lost to his 
sight. Another besides himself watched this 
man running away : Margaret, who had heard 
every word that had passed. 

“And you’re going home,” she said, with 
her hand pressed to her bosom. 

“Yes, ah, yes,” he replied. “ I have wait- 
ed too many times. Home, dear home !” 

“And me?” she asked, in a low supplicating 
tone. “What is to become of me ?” 

“You, Margaret ! You, my dear child ! 
You go with me, of course ! What did I prom- 
ise Philip ? I will be a father to you until I 
place you in his father’s arms. Ah, Margaret, 
let us kneel down and thank God for all His 
goodness ! for He is good, dear child, in the 
midst of our. greatest afflictions. Ah, that’s 
good — that’s good !” for her tears were flowing 
now for the first time since Philip’s death, and 
she lay in his arms, sobbing. 

The next day they bade good-bye to Silver 
Creek ; and shortly afterward they were on 
board The Good Harvest , and the white sails 
of the ship were spread for England. 


PART THE SECOND/' 

THIS END OF THE WORLD. 


I. 

THE CURTAIN FALLS FOR A BRIEF SPACE. 

For a brief space, let the curtain fall. 

The Good Harvest made a fine passage home. 
It was one of those famous clipper ships, at 
once the glory' and the pride of commerce, 
which occasionally make a run of four hundred 
knots in the twenty-four hours. On those oc- 
casions, after the heaving of the log, the skip- 
per rubs his hands joyously, and walks the deck 
in a state of beaming satisfaction. Then is 
the time to ask a favor of him. 

For a little while after Mr. Hart stepped on 
board this good ship his spirits were weighed 
down by melancholy. The tragic death of 
Philip had affected him powerfully. During 
their brief acquaintance he had grown to love 
the young man most deeply and sincerely, and 
he felt like a father who has lost a darling son. 
I have already said that Mr. Hart, although he 
was over sixty years of age, was a young-look- 
ing man. He had lines and furrows in his 
face, but they did not bring a careworn or de- 
spondent expression there, as is generally the 
case. His gait, his voice, his manner, the 
brightness of his eyes, were those which natu- 
rally belong to three decades of years instead 
of six. What more pleasant sight is there in 
human nature than to see old age thus borne ? 
For the first few days, however, after the sail- 
ing of The, Good Harvest , Mr. Hart looked his 
years. 

But to stand upon the deck, holding on by 
spar or rope, while the noble ship rushed brave- 
ly onward through the grand sea, now riding 
on the white crests of great water ranges, now 
gliding through the wondrous valleys on the 
wings of the wind, was enough to make an old 
man young again. It made Mr. Hart young. 
The salt spray and the fresh exhilarating breeze 
drove youth into his pores, and his heart 
danced within him as day after day passed, 
and he was drawn nearer and nearer to the 
shores of old England. They brought back to 
him also his natural hopefulness and cheerful- 
ness of heart. The great secret of this change 
for the better lay in himself. He had faith ; 
he believed in the goodness of God and in a 
hereafter. He did not love Philip less because 
he grieved for him less. “I shall see Philip 
again,” he thought; and his heart glowed as 


he looked at the sea and the heavens, and saw 
around him the wondrous evidences of a be- 
neficent Creator. 

Every soul on board The Good Harvest— 
with the exception of two or three passengers 
who had made their fortunes in the gold coun- 
try, and whose natures had been soured in the 
process — had a smile and a good word for the 
cheerful and genial old man, who seemed to 
be always on the lookout to do his neighbors a 
kindness ; he was an exemplification of Macau- 
lay’s saying, with reference to a voyage in a 
passenger ship, “It is every day in the power 
of an amiable person to confer little services.” 
He was unremitting in his attentions to Mar- 
garet, whom, however, he could not win to 
cheerfulness. It was well for her, during this 
darkened period of her life, that she had by 
her side such a faithful friend as Mr. Hart: 
for as the constant dropping of water makes an 
impression even on a stone, so the unwearied 
care and constant sympathy of this good friend 
had a beneficial effect upon her spirits. At 
present the effect was shown only in a nega- 
tive way : while Mr. Hart’s efforts failed to 
brighten her outwardly during the voyage, 
they prevented her from sinking into the 
depths of despair. At first she was loath to 
speak of Philip, and when Mr. Hart mention- 
ed his name, she looked at him reproachfully; 
but, knowing that it would be best for her, lie 
wooed her gently to speak of her lost love. 
These efforts were made always at seasona- 
ble times : in the evening when all was quiet 
around them, and they two were sitting alone, 
looking over the bulwarks at the beautiful wa- 
ter ; when the evening star came out ; later on 
in the night, when the heavens were filled with 
stars ; when the moon rose ; when the clouds 
were more than usually lovely. The memory 
of Philip became, as it were, harmonized with 
these peaceful influences, and his name, gently 
uttered, brought no disquiet to her soul. She 
grew to associate Philip with all that was most 
beautiful and peaceful in nature ; and although 
she would occasionally in the dead of night 
awake from her sleep in terror with the sight 
and sound of furious flames in her mind, and 
with Philip’s form struggling in their midst, 
these disturbing fancies became less frequent 
as time wore on. One night she awoke, smil- 
ing, for she had dreamed of Philip in associa- 


52 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


tion with more soothing influences; she and 
he had been walking together on a still night, 
with bright stars about them. 

She began to be aware of the selfishness of 
her grief, and to reproach herself for her in- 
gratitude to Mr. Hart. She expressed her pen- 
itence to him. 

“Well,” he said, kindly and seriously, “that 
is good in one way. It shows that you are be- 
coming a little more cheerful.” 

She shook her head. 

“ I shall never again be cheerful ; happiness 
is gone out of my life forever.” 

“Philip does not like to hear you say so, 
Margaret.” 

Mr. Hart purposely used the present tense. 
Margaret pondered over the words. “ Philip 
does not like I” That would imply that Philip 
heard her. 

“ He does hear you, my dear,” said Mr. Hart. 

“ If I believed that you would never see Philip 
again I should bid you despair ; but you and 
Philip will meet in a better world than this, 
and that is why I want you to be cheerful, as 
he would ask you to be, if you could hear his 
voice.” 

In this way Mr. Hart aroused to full con- 
sciousness the religious principle within her, 
and it may with truth be said that, although 
Margaret had lived a pure and sinless life, she 
had never been a better woman than she was 
now, notwithstanding the deep sorrow which 
had fallen upon her. 

When The Good Harvest had been seventy 
days out, the skipper said to Mr. Hart that he 
smelled England. “If all goes well,” he said, 
“we shall be in Victoria Dock in seven days 
from this.” 

Mr. Hart immediately went below into his 
cabin to set his things in order. He mapped 
out his programme of proceedings. His first 
task — one of duty — was to see William Smith’s 
old mother. She lived in London, and if he 
got ashore before midday, he would be able to 
put Margaret into lodgings and see the old 
woman the same day. Then he would draw 
before her eyes the sketch of the picture which 
William Smith had paid him to paint, of The 
Margaret Reef and The William Smith quartz 
crushing-machine “ bang-banging away, ” and he 
would delight the old woman’s heart by telling 
her of the grand doings of her son. Mr. Hart 
calculated that he could accomplish this by the 
evening, when he would take his sketch away 
with him, and paint the picture from it in the 
course of the next three or four weeks. His 
second task was one of love : he would go "to 
see his daughter. Curiously enough, she was 
in Devonshire, whither he should have to di- 
rect his steps in Margaret’s interests. Philip’s 
father lived in “ dear old Devon,” to use Phil- 
ip’s own words ; but that and the allusions to 
the Silver Flagon, which had been adopted as 
the sign of their hotel in Silver Creek, were the 
only clues which Mr. Hart possessed toward 
finding old Mr. Rowe. Faint as these clues 


were (and he had discovered that Margaret 
could not* supply him with an}' more definite), 
it was clearly his duty to do his best with them. 
Margaret, of course, would accompany him to 
Devonshire, and become acquainted with his 
daughter Lucy, whose name is now for the first 
time mentioned. Seated in his cabin, Mr. Hart 
took out his pocket-book, and wrote in it the 
order of his proceedings. This being done, he 
looked over the contents of the book, and came 
across a blank envelope with a bulky inclosure 
in it. At first he did not remember how this 
envelope came into his possession, but he was 
only in doubt for a moment or two. It was the 
packet which Philip had given into his charge 
on his return from his honeymoon. Mr. Hart 
recalled the conversation that had taken place 
between them on the occasion, and the promise 
Philip had exacted from him that he would not 
give up the envelope until they met, in the old 
country. He sighed as he thought that that 
meeting could never take place, and he went 
into the saloon where Margaret was sitting. 
He asked her if Philip had spoken to her about 
this trust ; she answered, no, and that she was 
in complete ignorance of it. 

“Now that poor Philip’s wish can not be 
fulfilled,” said Mr. Hart, “you had better take 
possession of the packet.” 

Pie held it out to her ; she refused to ac- 
cept it. 

“ It was given into your charge,” she said, 
“by my poor lost darling. Every word he 
spoke is sacred to me.” Her tears began to 
flow. 

“At all events,” said Mr. Hart, “ we had 
best see what is inside.” 

He opened the envelope, and found that it 
inclosed another, well sealed, on the cover of 
which was written : 

11 The Property of Gerald , and to be opened only 
by him.” 

This complicated matters. 

“ Gerald,” thought Mr. Hart ; “my name!” 
and said aloud, “Do you know who Gerald is ?” 

“My poor darling,” replied Margaret, “has 
spoken to me of a friend he had named Gerald.” 

“ Then this must be he.” Mr. Hart replaced 
the envelope in his pocket-book. “ We may 
have the good fortune to find him. Gerald may 
have been a college friend.” 

So that now there was another task, with the 
slightest of clues, to be fulfilled. 

Mr. Hart had noticed, with great inward 
satisfaction, that during the past two or three 
weeks Margaret was looking brighter ; she had 
not, it is true, recovered her old animation of* 
speech and manner, but comfort and consola- 
tion had come to her in some way. More than 
once she had seemed to be on the point of con- 
fiding something to this dear friend, w r ho was 
now all in the world she had to cling to, but 
the words she wished to speak would not come 
to her tongue. On this night, however, as they 
stood upon the deck, talking of Philip, of home, 


53 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


of the future, in subdued tones, Mr. Hart learn- 
ed Margaret’s secret. She hoped to become a 
mother. 

“Heaven pray that it may be so,” thought 
Mr. Hart ; “ it will be a joy a^id a solace to her 
bruised heart.” 

Another day went by, and another. The 
Good Harvest sailed smartly on to England’s 
shores. The sailors sang blithely at their work ; 
the skipper paced the deck, in a joyous frame 
of mind, thinking of his wife and children at 
home ; and almost at the very hour named by 
him, the long voyage was at an end, and Lon- 
don smoke was curling over the masts of the 
famous clipper ship. 


II. 

“tiie would is full of sweet and beau- 
tiful PLACES.” 

On a day in June, when the roses were 
blooming, there sauntered through one of the 
sweetest of all the sweet country lanes in En- 
gland an elderly man, whose hair was white, 
and whose- dress and bearing denoted that he 
was a gentleman. The lane was a long one, 
with many windings, and the few persons' whom 
the gentleman met touched their hats and bow- 
ed to him as they passed with varying degrees 
of deference, according to their station ; he, on 
his part, receiving all these greetings with uni- 
form courtesy, and with the accustomed air of 
one to whom homage of this kind was familiar. 
Walking toward him, at a distance of three or 
four hundred yards, at the moment his figure 
first appears upon the scene, was a man of about 
the same age, whose inquiring looks this way 
and that proclaimed either that the locality was 
strange to him, or that he was renewing ac- 
quaintance with it after a lapse of years. His 
dress was composed of much commoner mate- 
rials than was that of the gentleman whom he 
was approaching, and there were a careless 
freedom and an assertion of independence in 
his manner which only those exhibit who have 
traveled about the world. 

In the minds of these two men, one holding 
a high, the other a humble station in life, there 
was no thought of each other ; but the threads 
of their lives, which had been so wide apart, 
and for so long a time as to make it appear al- 
most an impossibility that they should ever 
again be connected, were approaching closer 
and closer with each passing moment, and 
would soon be joined, nevermore to be unlink- 
ed. They knew not of it, thought not of it ; 
•but it was most sure. What is it that shapes 
our lives — chance, or a wise ordination? Say 
that, invited by a faint smell of lilac or by the 
fluttering of a butterfly’s wings with a rare col- 
or in them which we would behold again, we 
turn aside for but one moment from our con- 
templated course — can it be possible that we 
are such slaves of circumstance that this sim- 
ple deviation (if it may be so called) may change 


the current of our lives from good to ill, from 
bad fortune to prosperity ? How often does 
one breath of air change a comedy into a trag- 
edy! Blindly we walk along, and presently 
may be struggling in the dark with grim ter- 
rors, or may be walking among flowers, sur- 
rounded by every thing that can make life 
sweet. 

In a very narrow part of the country lane, 
where the hedgerows were most fragrant, was 
a stile, upon the top bar of which the stranger 
rested his foot, and turning, gazed with pleased 
and grateful eyes over the fair vista of field and 
wood which the hedgerows shut out from the 
view of those who walked on the level path. 
Although he was between sixty and seventy 
years of age, his eyes were bright, and his face 
was the face of one who was prone to look upon 
the best side of things. 

“How fair and beautiful it is !” he murmur- 
ed gratefully. “What is there in the world 
half so sweet as these dear old English lanes 
and fields ?” He paused to reflect upon his 
question ; and then, with the whimsically-serious 
air of one who was accustomed to commune 
with himself, exclaimed, “ Nonsense, Gerald, 
nonsense ! The world is full of sweet and beau- 
tiful places.” 

Gentle undulations of land, beautified by va- 
rious color, were before him ; shadows of light 
passed over the landscape like waves, and stole 
from it the sadness which is ever an attribute 
of still life. There were farm-yards in the dis- 
tance, and sheep, with bells round their necks, 
trudging with patient gait to where the most 
tempting herbage lay. The sheep were at a 
great distance from the stranger, and by a cu- 
rious trick of the fancy he listened to the tink- 
ling of the bells, although it was impossible 
that the sound could reach him. Other sounds 
he could hear plainly : the cry of the wood- 
pecker, and the more melodious note of the 
cuckoo, beautifully clear, notwithstanding its 
slightly plaintive ring. 

“And full of sweet sounds, too,” mused the 
stranger, pursuing the current of his thoughts ; 
and added immediately, with the same whim- 
sically-serious air, and as if in comical defense 
of a prejudice, “Certainly no birds sing like 
English birds.” 

“ I beg your pardon.” 

The threads of their lives had met, never 
more to be unwoven, and the threads of other 
lives were presently to be joined to theirs, for 
weal or woe, as fate might determine. From 
this chance meeting rare combinations were to 
spring. 

“I was remarking,” said the stranger, turn- 
ing to the gentleman who was standing by the 
stile, waiting to cross, “ and not with justice, 
that no birds sing like English birds.” The 
gentleman did not answer him, and then he 
comprehended that the words uttered by the 
gentleman had been used not in contradiction 
of his statement, but as a request that he would 
move aside. He descended from the stile with 


54 : 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


a courteous smile, and said, “I beg your par- 
don, I am sure, both for blocking up the road- 
way and for misunderstanding you ; but I was 
so rapt in the beauty of the scene and in my 
own thoughts, that I misinterpreted the inten- 
tion of your words. Notwithstanding which, I 
should like to have your opinion as to whether 
I am right or not.” 

The gentleman had bent his head in acknowl- 
edgment of the half apology, and when the 
stranger ceased speaking, was standing on the 
other side of the stile. The gentleman gazed 
at the stranger, and recognized at a glance that 
although he was commonly dressed, his man- 
ners and speech were not those of a common 
person. To have proceeded on his way with- 
out a word would have been churlish ; therefore 
he said, in a somewhat indifferent tone, 

“ Right as to the birds ?” 

“Yes, as to the birds,”. replied the stranger, 
with vivacity. 

“I can not say ; I have not traveled. Some 
of our best woodland singers are migratory. 
But I should say — although I am not in the 
least way an authority — that it would be no 
easy matter to find more melodious woods than 
our English woods.” 

“That is true ; then I was right. Though 
whether I meant that English birds were or 
were not better singers than birds of other 
countries, it would puzzle me to say. But as 
to the English woods — they are the sweetest 
and fairest. There again! I have lain in the 
Australian woods, and my soul has been thrill- 
ed by their beauty. Yes, I was right. The 
world is full of sweet and beautiful places.” 

The gentleman smiled at these contradictory 
utterances, but the stranger’s words could not 
have been more at variance with one another 
than were his speech and his attire. His words 
were scholarly, and his clothes were patched. 

“You look and speak like an Englishman,” 
said the gentleman. 

“I am one.” 

“ From your words I should judge that this 
part of England is strange to you.” 

“It is more than thirty years since I was 
last in Devonshire.” 

“That is a long time — you must find it 
changed somewhat.” 

“ Somewhat.” 

While these words were being exchanged, 
their observance of each other, which had been 
slight at first, grew closer and more searching, 
and into their eyes stole a pondering look so 
curiously alike that one seemed to be a reflec- 
tion of the other. But for the influence which 
this close observance exercised upon him, the 
gentleman would not have stopped to converse 
with an unknown man, and with one so far be- 
neath him, from a worldly point of view. The 
stranger repeated thoughtfully : 

“ Yes, I find it somewhat changed.” 

“ It is in the nature of things,” said the gen- 
tleman, “to change as we grow older.” 

“Not so. I find it changed because / have 


changed. Old eyes and young eyes see the 
same things differently. Are the clouds less 
bright than they were when we were young ? 
Are the flowers less beautiful? When Jacob 
courted Laban’s daughters o’ nights (how they 
must have laughed in their sleeves, if they wore 
them, at the old man’s craft !), were the nights 
less lovely than the nights are now ?” 

The gentleman passed his hand lightly be- 
fore his eyes, as if to clear away a vapor. 

“ I am corrected,” lie said, with the air of a 
man whose thoughts were traveling one road, 
while his words traveled another ; “ we some- 
times say things without consideration.” 

“Either because they sound well, or because 
they seem to savor of wisdom. That comes 
from our vanity. When men grow as old as 
we are, they often ape the philosopher. The 
lark changes into an owl. They try to shape 
their words so that; they may sound like prov- 
erbs.” 

“They utter one occasionally, perhaps.” 

“ Perhaps,” said the stranger in a tone of du- 
bious assent ; “ but the odds are heavy against 
it. Even if they do, what then ?” 

“ Proverbs are good and useful utterances,” 
observed the gentleman, adding, in unconscious 
illustration of the stranger’s words, “nuts of 
wisdom.” 

The stranger laughed scornfully. “A prov- 
erb on proverbs ! Nuts of wisdom indeed !” 

“Are they not?” 

“ No ; the proverb holds a false position in 
language. It is used invariably in a general 
sense, whereas it has only a special application 
for the time being ; then, having served its pur- 
pose, loses its value, and should be laid aside 
until another special circumstance calls for it.” 

“It would be difficult to establish that.” 

“Most easy. I will prove it in a practical 
way. Repeat a proverb — any one that occurs 
to you; the more familiar the better — and I 
will mate it with another, equally familiar, 
which gives it the lie.” 

The gentleman might have accepted the 
challenge, but that a laborer, approaching them 
from his side of the stile, seemed to remind 
him that he was losing dignity in conversing 
with one who wore patched clothes, and who 
was unknown to him. Bidding the stranger 
“Good-day,” and slightly bending his head in 
acknowledgment of the laborer’s deferential 
bow, he walked slowly away. 


III. 

“CUSTOS ROTULORUM.” 

As the laborer crossed the stile, the stran- 
ger accosted him. 

“Hodge!” 

“Who be Hodge?” quoth the laborer un- 
civilly, but disposed for conversation and argu- 
ment. 

“You — in a collective sense.” 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


“Then ye’ve gotten the sow by the wrong 
ear.” 

“Supposing I have got a sow at all,” said 
the stranger complacently, “ will you present 
to me the right ear ?” 

Not understanding the nature of the request, 
the man continued playing on the same string. 
“ Hodge bain’t my name !” And grinned with 
the triumph of a philosopher. 

“What may be your name, then, my most 
veracious hair-splitter?” 

“I be no splitter. Who be ye a -callin’ 
names? As for my name, that I’ll keep to 
myself.” Saying which the laborer fastened a 
loose button with an air of determination. 

With a chuckle, the stranger replied, “Like 
yourself, oh tiller of the soil ! — for such you are, 
I opine, and, as such, the noblest work of God 
— like yourself, I am but a poor player, who 
struts and frets his hour upon the stage.” 

“Eh! a player! I was thinking ye didn’t look 
like a worker ! I know ’en when I see ’en and 
the laborer grinned again at his own wit. 

“But ’tis not of ourselves I wish to speak,” 
said the stranger, in a tone which he purposely 
made grandiloquent; “’tis of another — of the 
gentleman to whom you doffed your cap, and 
who has just left us.” 

, “What do you want of ’en?” demanded the 
laborer, in a sharp tone, cocking his ears like 
a terrier. 

“ His name.” 

“Eh! More names! D’ye come down 
here to rob us of ’en ? But there be no harm 
a-tellin’ of ye. It may be a warnin’ to ye. 
’A’s name be Mr. Weston.” 

All the stranger’s light manner was gone. 
“Weston !” he cried, seizing the man’s arm. 

The laborer shook himself free, and in a se- 
vere tone corrected the stranger : 

“Mister Weston, I told ye.” 

“I ask your and Mr. Weston’s pardon. A 
well-to-do man this Mr. Weston.” 

The laborer scanned the stranger’s clothes ; 
the mental result was not favorable. 

“That be his business, ’a b’lieve,”he said 
suspiciously. 

Apparently in an absent mood, the stranger 
drew from his pocket a handful of things, among 
which were a short pipe, a tobacco-pouch, and 
some money. Somewhat ostentatiously he 
picked out a few silver and copper pieces, and 
held them loosely in his left hand. The la- 
borer, who was about to slouch away, altered 
his mind, and lingered penitentially. 

“Good cider about here, my man?” asked 
the stranger. 

“That there be,” replied the laborer, draw- 
ing the back of his hand across his mouth. 
“The best in the county.” 

“I passed an old-fashioned hostelry — more 
like a gentleman’s house than a hotel — about 
half a mile from this spot — ” The stranger 
paused. 

“ Up along there,” said the laborer, pointing 
with his finger. 


“Yes; in that direction.” 

“ With a bit o’ garden round ’en,” volunteer- 
ed the laborer. 

“Ay, with a garden round it.” 

“And a swing gate before ’en — ” 

“ ’Tis so. And a swing gate opening into 
the garden. Apple-trees before the house — ” 

“Standing back from the road the house 
be,” said the laborer, moving his lips as one 
might do preparatory to the imbibing of a deep 
draught of the best cider in the county. 

“It is warmish,” said the stranger, with a 
look of sly enjoyment. “Yes, standing back 
from the road the house is.” 

“That be The Silver Flagon.” 

The stranger leaped off the stile with a sud- 
den cry. 

“A day of wondqrs !” he exclaimed. “ Prov- 
idence must have led me in this direction.” A 
sad and tender reminiscence brought the tears 
to his eyes. “The Silver Flagon ! The dear 
old Silver Flagon ! And the proprietor’s name 
is Rowe, an old man and a gentleman !” 

“ That ’a be — as wold a man as ye, ’a should 
say. A rare fine place ’tis.” 

“ It looks it.” The stranger’s eyes glittered 
with joy. 

“Too fine for the likes of — ” (“we,” he was 
about to say, but the sight of the stranger’s 
money caused a correction) — “me. ’A can 
get rare fine cider in another place.” 

“Doubtless.” The stranger could scarcely 
restrain his excitement. “ But to come back 
to what we were speaking of just now ” (rattling 
the money in his hand) — “ this Mr. Weston — 
By the way, though, let us give him his full 
name; Mr. Richard Weston, of course.” 

“Ay, that be his name.” 

The laborer would have used the word 
“ full,” but that it stood in his mind for “ fool- 
ish.” 

“ I was asking — a well-to-do man, Mr. Wes- 
ton?” 

“ Well-to-do !” exclaimed the laborer, thirst- 
ily. “ They say he have no end o’ money.” 

“ Highly respected, no doubt.” 

“That ’a be,” replied the laborer, becoming 
very parched indeed. “ If ye’ll stand atop the 
stile, ye’ll see the chimneys of his house. ’Tis 
a rare fine house!” 

The stranger stood upon the top bar of the 
stile, and gazed in the indicated direction. “ I 
see them, and I make my obeisance to them.” 
Saying which he doffed his hat, and bowed, 
with a curiously-fantastic tenderness. He quite 
forgot the laborer, who was standing by' his side, 
greedily and humbly expectant, but a cough 
and a kick at the stile recalled him to himself. 
He turned, and, 'with a negligent nod and a half 
smile at the laborer, dropped the money care- 
lessly into his pocket, and proceeded to charge 
his pipe. 

A minute or two passed in silence ; then the 
laborer coughed again, and scraped his foot, 
and shifted his body restlessly ; but the stran- 
ger puffed at his pipe calmly, and did not ap- 


5G 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


pear to notice him, although really he was en- 
joying the man’s discomfiture. The laborer 
went through a certain mental process. First, 
he was mystified, and his mind was perfectly 
clouded ; then a glimmer of light broke into 
the clouds, and a dim suspicion stole upon him, 
that he had been beaten into civility by a trick. 
With a sense of helplessness, and of submission 
to the superior cunning by which he had been 
conquered, he was about to move away, when 
the passing of his tongue over his lips made him 
ireful and vindictive. A thought struck him, 
and he proceeded to give it expression. 

“ ’A say!” he cried, in his uncivilest tone. 

The stranger removed his pipe from his lips, 
and raised liis eyes toward the man. “Ah, 
you have an idea, evidently. Stand, then, and 
deliver !” The man started back, having some 
notion of the meaning of the words ; he clapped 
his hand on his trowsers-pocket to protect three 
halfpence and — his idea. “Don’t be alarmed,” 
said the stranger; “nothing of that sort was 
in my mind. Proceed, my friend.” 

“No friend o’ yours, that ’a know of,” re- 
torted the laborer. “ You’d best take care!” 

“ I will endeavor to do so.” 

The laborer searched his mind for a collo- 
quial stone with which to smite his foe. He 
found one. “Ye don’t look too respectable.” 

“ You deserve a reward for your perspicaci- 
ty,” said the stranger, much amused — and the 
laborer, at the unfamiliar word, started again — 
“ if not for your civility. You have a keener 
scent than our friend- — I beg your pardon once 
more — than Mr. Weston.” 

“ Well, take care, then. He be a justice.” 

“ A little one or a big one, my man ? A frog 
or an ox ? For there are justices and justices.” 

“A big un. Take care!” This iteration 
appeared to assuage Ms thirst. 

“Custos rotulorum, eh?” 

“’A thought you was no good — eussin’ and 
swearin’. “ ’A’ve a good miud — ” 

“ I hope so, I am sure, I am sure. May it 
long remain uncontaminated!” 

“ ’A’ve a good mind to go and tell ’en.” 

“You’ve a good mind to go and tell him 
you’ve a good mind?” queried the stranger, in 
a quiet bantering tone. 

“ To tell ’en ye’re up to no good ; seeking to 
know all about ’en — whether he be rich, and 
where he lives. Danged if I don’t b’lieve ye’re 
one o’ them London chaps come down along 
here wi’ designs !” 

“A peripatetic architect,” said the stranger, 
laughing heartily. “ Thank you for the com- 
pliment, my rustic sage. I am nothing so dig- 
nified as that, believe me. But allow me to 
correct you. You yourself volunteered the in- 
formation as to the whereabouts of Mr. Wes- 
ton’s house ; the information may be useful to 
me.” 

“ May ’en ! Danged if I don't go and tell 
’en!” 

The stranger stood aside to allow the labor- 
er to cross the stile. 


“Come after me, if ye dare!” cried the la- 
borer. 

“I dare do all that may become a man,” re- 
plied the stranger; and also crossing the stile, 
he leisurely followed the laborer, who took care 
to keep at a fair distance. 

They had not to walk far: round another 
bend in the lane, where it broadened unexpect- 
edly, and where great tufts of feather-grass 
were swinging their fairy bells over a brook, 
they came upon Mr. Weston resting himself. 
He turned toward them at their approach. 
The laborer took off his cap and pawed the 
ground servilely with his left foot; and then 
found himself in a difficulty. He had not the 
wit to lead up to the attack gently, and with the 
consciousness upon him of the stranger’s supe- 
rior flow of speech, he felt himself at a disad- 
vantage. If the stranger would speak first, he 
could take up his words; but the stranger stood 
provokingly calm and silent. 

“Well?” said Mr. Weston. 

The sense of injury under which the man la- 
bored gave him courage. 

“This chap here,” he blurted out, with a 
back scrape of his right foot, “ be up to no good, 
your honor.” 

Mr. Weston looked at the stranger' and wait- 
ed for farther explanation. 

“’A be a London chap come down along 
here wi’ designs. ’A don’t deny ’en. ’A be 
cravin’ all sorts of questions about your honor. 
’A wanted to know whether your honor was rich, 
where your honor’s house be, and how much 
money your honor keeps in it. I conceived it 
my duty to come along and tell your honor.” 

“Oh, most mendacious Hodge!” exclaimed 
the stranger, shaking his head in sad and smil- 
ing reproof. 

“That be the way ’a’s been talkin’ all the 
time; and swearin’ and eussin’ as well, and 
callin’ your honor a frog. When ’a’d drawed 
o’ me that your honor was a justice, ’a cussed 
and rotted your honor.” 

“Custos rbtulorum,” said the stranger. 

“They be the words — eussin’ and rottin’, 
your honor.” 


IV. 

“it was just such a day as this, and the 

AIR W^S SWEET, AND LIFE WAS SWEET.” 

Mr. Weston smiled, and the stranger smiled 
also. These smiles were like question and an- 
swer, and appeared to be given and accepted as 
a satisfactory defense to the laborer’s accusa- 
tions. At the same time there stole into Mr. 
Weston’s eyes the same curiously-pondering 
look which had dwelt in them when he and the 
stranger were first conversing. 

“It can not be,” he murmured. 

“Why not?” asked the stranger. “More 
wonderful things have happened.” 

Suddenly he cast aside his nonchalant air, . 
and said earnestly : 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


57 


“Look into the brook.” 

As though compelled by an influence he had 
no power to withstand, Mr. Weston gazed into 
the brook, and saw reflected there his own face 
and the face of the stranger who was bending 
over the water by his side. Their backs were 
turned toward the laborer, who, not doubting 
the stranger’s sinister designs, prepared himself 
for an emergency by spitting on his hands and 
smoothing his side-locks ; he was aware of the 
responsible position he occupied, and he settled 
with himself that, in the event of the stranger 
pushing Mr. Weston into the water, the best 
thing fo:r him to do would be to run away and 
cry “Fire!” , 

“ Take my hand,” the stranger Said, in a sad 
sweet tone. They joined hands, and the hand- 
clasp was reflected in the brook. . “Why can 
not it be ? It is not always that the words which 
make a friendship are as intangible as the shad- 
owy semblance of it which we see before us. 
Words are not all air — spoken, forgotten, lost 
forever. Why can not it be? Here we two 
old men stand, looking into the past ; it might 
really be so. How many years ago was it — 
forty — that two young men stood beside a brook 
as we stand now, looking into the future ?” Mr. 
Weston’s hand tightened upon that of his com- 
panion. “They loved each other then — do 
they love each other now? I can answer for 
one. They were friends in the best meaning 
of the word — are they friends now? Thirty 
odd years have passed. It was just such a 
day as this ; and the air was sweet, and life was 
sweet. Do you remember?” 

They raised their faces to each ; their lips 
quivered ; their eyes were suffused with tears. 

“ Gerald !” 

“ Richard !” 

“It is like a dream,” said Mr. Weston, with 
his hand to his eyes. 

In the mean while the laborer stood dumb- 
founded at the strange turn the scene had ta- 
ken ; the word “Fire” hung upon his tongue, 
and he swallowed it disgustedly. He had wit 
enough to perceive that he had made a deplor- 
able mistake, and he was about to slink away, 
hoping not to be noticed, when the stranger’s 
voice arrested his steps. 

“Well, my friend!” he said, with sly twin- 
kles. 

The laborer scratched his head penitential- 
]y ; the expression in his face conveyed an un- 
mistakable appeal to the stranger not to hit a 
man when he was down. 

“Dense is no word to express the condition 
of the rustic mind,” said the stranger, with a 
full enjoyment of his victory. “There is but 
one way of favorably impressing it.” He took 
a small piece of silver from his pocket, and the 
laborer’s eyes followed the motion of his hand, 
and the laborer’s lips grew parched again. 
“ There, my friend ; drink Mr. Weston’s health 
in the best cider in the county.” 

The laborer took the mon§y, and slouched 
off, rarely mystified. 


“Custos rotulorum!” cried the stranger af- 
ter him ; and at those dread words the laborer 
took to his heels, and was soon out of sight. 

Left to themselves, the two old men, who 
had been friends when they were young, gazed 
at each other in silent wonder at this strange 
and unexpected reunion. They said but little 
at first ; words were slow a-coming. 

“Did you know I was here?” asked Mr. 
Weston. 

“ I had no suspicion of it.” 

“ It Avill be a long time before I get over 
the surprise of this meeting, Gerald,” said Mr. 
Weston ; “I scarcely thought we should ever 
meet again in this world.” 

“We speculated on the after-life when we 
were boys,” answered Gerald ; “ but whenever 
I thought of you, you were not dead to me. I 
believed, as I hoped, that you lived and were 
prosperous.” 

“You thought of me, then? I am glad to 
know that. Gerald, I am truly pleased to see 
you.” 

“Not more so than I am to see you.” 

“And you have really thought of me often ; 
but you were always faithful.” 

“You have obtruded yourself upon me in the 
midst of the strangest scenes. There have 
been times, of course, when the affairs of life 
were most pressing, that you have not .been 
present to my mind ; but you have come back 
to me invariably, and sometimes in strangely- 
familiar connection with circumstances of which 
you could not possibly have had any knowledge, 
not knowing where I was, or what path of life 
I was pursuing.” 

“The same old Gerald,” said Mr. Weston, 
pressing his friend’s hand with affection ; “ and 
the same old way of talking.” 

“Not quite clear, eh? You used to say, 
‘Sav that again, Gerald;’ but you understand 
me now ?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

Gerald laughed, and Mr. Weston laughed 
with him, without apparent cause, as he had 
often done in the time gone by. But there 
was something contagious in Gerald’s laugh, 
and indeed in his whole manner; especially 
when he was serious, as he was now, he seem- 
ed to possess the power of compelling his friend 
to be of his humor. 

“ Perfectly, you say! Well, but I scarcely 
understand myself. That is so always with 
me when I generalize.” 

“It used to be so with you in the old days — 
or you used to say it was.” 

“When I specialize, I can make the thing 
clearer, so I will specialize now. Once, being 
in Australia — ” 

“Ah, you have much to tell me!” 

“ — I am working with two mates on the 
gold-fields — working from sunrise to sunset, in 
the hope of catching a golden reef, following a 
will-o’-the-wisp deeper and deeper into the bow- 
els of the earth, and never catching it, mind 
you. Being down a hundred and forty feet, 


58 


AT THE SIGN OF T1 

we — my mates and I — are misled by a thin 
vein of quartz that takes a horizontal direction, 
and we resolve to drive a tunnel in its direction. 
There is a theory among the miners that these 
thin veins must lead to the reef itself, hearing 
the same relation to the prize they work for as 
the veins in the human body bear to the heart. 
One day I am alone in this. tunnel, where no 
glimpse of daylight can be seen. Two candles 
throw a dim light around. I am a hundred 
and forty feet below the surface of the earth, 
and but* for the human aid at the top of the 
claim, I am completely cut off from the world, 
for we are the only workers on this hill. In 
my eager hunt after gold, I have not thought 
of you for years. Suddenly, as I am working 
with my short pick, sitting on the floor of the 
tunnel — for there is not room to stand upright 
— a stone drops from above into a little pool of 
water which has gathered at the bottom of the 
claim, and as the sound of the plash falls upon 
my ear, your image comes to my mind in con- 
nection with a time when we stood side by. side 
dropping stones into a stream. Now I have 
made my meaning clearer to myself.” 

“ You have made it very clear to me.” 

“Tell me : when I have beep in your mind, 
in what way have I presented myself? As I 
was?” 

“Always as you were, Gerald — with your 
bright eyes and brown curly hair — ” 

“That is it. Not with white hair, as ours 
is now. I have thought of you in the same 
way. Memory does not reason. So that it 
really is something of a shock to come upon 
each other after so long an interval, and find so 
great a change.” 

They fell into silence. Tender memories were 
stirred to life, and visions of scenes in which 
they had played prominent parts rose before 
them. Old as they were, romance was not 
dead in their hearts. But suddenly, as they 
traced the current of their youthful lives, they 
gazed at each other with sad meaning. Each 
knew instinctively that the thoughts of the oth- 
er had halted at a certain momentous epoch in 
their careers. 

« 

Y. 

A STRANGE STORY. 

“Gerald,” said Mr. Weston, “you went 
away very suddenly and strangely; I often 
wondered as to the cause.” 

“ And never suspected ?” • 

“I think not the right cause. I imagined 
a hundred things in my endeavors to fathom 
the mystery, but without success. It is a mys- 
tery still to me.” 

“You imagined such things as — ” He paused 
for Mr. Weston to take up his words. . 

“As whether you were in any money diffi- 
culties, for one.” 

Gerald Hunter — for that was his full name 
— shook his head. “No; when I left I owed 


[E SILVER FLAGON. 

no man a shilling, and I had money in my 
purse.” 

“ I can not recall now the various construc- 
tions I put upon your disappearance. It must 
have been a powerful reason that caused you to 
desert your friend without a word of explana- 
tion.” 

“ It was a powerful reason. Would you like 
to hear it, Richard ?” 

“ Yes, indeed.” 

“ We are old men now,” said Gerald Hunter, 
in a musing tone, in which there was a touch 
of solemnity, “ and I can speak of it, and you 
can hear it, without pain. But tell me first 
about Clara.” His voice faltered as he uttered 
the name. 

“ She is dead,” murmured Mr. Weston, softly, 

“ many, many years ago.” 

A cuckoo flew past them, singing as it flew, 
and seemed to echo plaintively, “Years ago!” 

“You loved her, Richard?” 

“With my whole soul, Gerald.” 

“I knew it; and I read the announcement 
of your marriage in the papers. You were 
happy in your marriage ?” 

“ Very, very happy. Our only grief during 
the first few years was that we had no children. 
But that blessing, which brought with it also 
the keenest sorrow of my life, was bestowed upon 
us after seven years. Clara placed a child in 
my arms, and died a few hours afterward.” 

"“It must have been a bitter blow, dear 
friend.” 

“ I had a consolation, Gerald ; her last words 
to me, as she placed her arms about my neck, 
were that she had lived with jne in perfect 
happiness, and that we should meet each other 
again.” 

“ Her child lives ?” 

“ You shall see him, Gerald. I named him 
after you. It was Clara’s wish, before our child 
was born, that if we were blessed with a boy, 
he should be called Gerald. He is a handsome 
young fellow — a man now — good, noble, and 
high-minded.” He spoke with the pride of a 
fond father. 

“ I am sure he would be.” 

“My most earnest hope is that he may 
make a good alliance. He can look high, for 
he will be rich. But to your confession, Ger- 
ald ; we have wandered away from it.” 

“You will not say so when you have heard 
it.” ’ He placed his hand upon the hand of his 
friend. “ Have you still no suspicion of it?” 

“ No, Gerald, I hold no clue.” 

“ I kept my secret well, then. Dear friend, 
I loved Clara.” 

Mr. Weston turned to Gerald Hunter with a 
startled look. 

“And I knew,” continued Gerald, that you 
loved her, and that she looked upon me only as 
a friend of the man to whom she had given her 
heart. Fearful lest my secret should, in an 
unguarded moment, become known to you and 
her, and knowing that the disclosure would 
bring an unnecessary grief into your lives, I 


59 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


adopted the only safe course which was open 
to me. I did not envy you your happiness, 
Richard, but I felt that I could bear my sorrow 
more bravely away from you — therefore I de- 
serted you.” 

“Dear Gerald,” said Mr. Weston, tenderly, 
“it was like you. How blind I must have 
been ! but I can see it now. Noble heart ! 
Dear noble friend ! I think I never fully val- 
ued you till now.” 

“You would have done the same by me, 
Richard,” said Gerald Hunter. 

“I do not know — I do not know; I doubt 
if I should have had the courage to fly. If I 
had been in your place — you with your higher 
gifts were the first in every thing, Gerald ; I 
was content always to walk behind you — I am 
afraid that I should have stopped and tried my 
fortune.” 

“No, no,” said Gerald, in gentle remon- 
strance ; “ I know you better than you know 
yourself. You would have acted as I did. 
Your friendship was as honest as mine. There 
could be no rivalry in love between us.” 

“I honor you more than ever, Gerald.” 

“ It was a sacrifice, Richard, you can under- 
stand that ; but I said to myself, This sunny 
spot in life which I laid out for myself, and in 
which I hoped to bask and lie in happiness — 
I had that hope, Richard, before I discovered 
that Clara loved you — is not to be mine ; it is 
my friend’s ; but I will be revenged upon him ; 
and who knows, dear friend, but that I may 
yet be ?” His tone was very sweet as he ut- 
tered these words, the deep significance of 
which was not comprehended bv either of them. 
The time was to come when they were well re- 
membered, and when they bore strange fruit. 
“I bless her memory,” continued Gerald. 
“ Her goodness and purity made many things 
sweet to me. That I loved her and left her — 
conscious that it was imperative upon me to do 
so for the sake both of love and friendship — did 
not make me a despairing man. In course of 
time my grief was softened ; I formed other ties, 
one of which reihains to me now, thank God ; 
and through all my wanderings I never lost 
faith in woman or woman’s purity. If, in a 
cynical mood, it ever came upon me to doubt, 
I thought of her, and the doubt was dissolved. 
It may be, Richard, that in the wise ordination 
of things, her spirit can see us now!” In the 
silence that followed, the thoughts of both these 
men dwelt in ‘tenderness on the memory of the 
gentle girl who had parted them. Gerald was 
the first to break the silence. “Where is she 
buried, Richard ?” 

“I will take you to her grave.” 

They walked hand-in-hand, as boys might 
have done, beguiling the way with conversa- 
tion. 

“Clara and I often spoke of you,” said Mr. 
Weston, “and always with affection, you may 
be sure. And not long after you disappeared, 
a singular thing happened ! Clara received no- 
tice from a lawyer that a legacy had been left 


to her — it was not a very large one, some four- 
teen hundred pounds.” 

“There is nothing singular in that,” said 
Gerald, calmly. 

“No, but in the manner of it! We never 
knew the name of the person who left the mon- 
ey. It was expressly stipulated that the name 
of the legator should not be revealed. I went 
to the lawyer on Clara’s behalf, being curious 
to ascertain the name of her generous friend — 
and mine, I may say — but the lawyer was stead- 
fast. His instructions were definite, he said, 
and he could not go beyond them. The only 
information he was empowered to give — if any 
inquiry was made — was that the legacy was a 
legacy of love. It puzzled us a great deal.” 

A peculiar smile passed over the face of Ger- 
ald Hunter, which his friend did not perceive. 
“ You must have been fortunate in other ways, 
Richard, to have prospered as you have pros- 
pered. For you are a prosperous man ?” 

“ Thank God, yes. I am a rich man, Ger- 
ald.” 

“Rich! Ah!” exclaimed Gerald, wistfully 
and almost hungrily. 

“I owe much of my good fortune to luck, 
and not to my deservings. A legacy was also 
left to me, in a very wonderful way; but in 
this case I knew the name of the person, who 
died in a foreign country, and who made me 
his executor. It is a strange story.” He look- 
ed over his shoulder with an air of fear. Ger- 
ald noticed the motion with surprise. 

“You used not to be nervous,” observed 
Gerald. 

“Why do you say that?” asked Mr. Weston. 

“You looked over your shoulder just now so 
strangely and nervously. Almost as though 
you expected to see a ghost.” 

Mr. Weston shuddered. “ I can tell you the 
story as we walk on. It will take but a short 
time, although it commences twenty years ago. 
A relative whom I had seen but once in my 
childhood died in a distant land, and made me 
his executor. He was a very wealthy man, 
and his will was a singular one. I was the 
only relative to whom he left a legacy, and in- 
deed I believe the only relative who was living. 
He divided his money between me and twelve 
other persons. All these others were strangers 
to him, and he became acquainted with their 
names in the following manner. It seems that 
he loved his mother with a very deep affection ; 
when she died, he discovered that she had left 
a diary, and in its pages he learned that she 
had suffered much in her early days, before 
her son was born. She had led a wandering 
life in her youth, every particular of which was’ 
set down in her diary, and in it she mentioned 
the names of persons who had been kind to her 
in her wanderings* in one page of her diary 
occurred the words : ‘ It would render me very 
happy to be able to repay them for their great 
goodness to me.’ What did the son do when 
he grew rich but place himself in communica- 
tion with a London lawyer, who was instruct- 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


eel to trace all these persons, and to ascertain 
the fullest particulars of themselves and their 
circumstances. Some had died and had left 
no issue ; some had died and had left children ; 
he kept himself acquainted with all their ca- 
reers, and shortly before his death he made a 
will, devising the whole of his wealth to these 
persons, and naming me as his executor. 

“You must remember, Gerald, that he had 
never seen one of these persons, and that he 
was totally unacquainted with their characters ; 
when, by and by, you hear the full particulars, 
you will know why I mention this ; I will only 
say here that two young persons, a young lady 
and a young gentleman, were left in the guard- 
ianship of a man whom I can not think of with- 
out a shudder. They fell in love with each 
other ; but their guardian, to whom their share 
of the money left would revert in case of their 
death, set himself resolutely against their union ; 
he held absolute control over them, and the re- 
sult of his conduct was that they met with a 
tragic end : they drowned themselves, and were 
found dead, clasped in each other’s arms. But 
I am wandering from the thread of the story. 
This will came home to me, and all the persons 
interested in it were summoned together. The 
place of meeting was a principal room in The 
Silver Flagon ; and at the appointed time we 
met. It was a strange gathering ; we were 
all strangers to one another ; but you can 
understand that the circumstances of our be- 
ing brought together made us friends at once. 
When the will was read, e.very person present 
foun4 that he had become rich in a strange and 
wonderful manner. There were in all thir- 
teen of us. Exhilarated by the pleasantness 
of the occasion, and excited by its novelty, we 
ordered dinner at The Silver Flagon, and sat 
down to table — thirteen in number. Upon 
this number being ascertained, the usual theme 
was started: one of the thirteen was sure to 
die before twelve months had passed. Said 
one, a merry fellow, Reuben Thorne by name, 

‘ Let us prove the falseness of this old-time 
absurdity. Here we are, made rich and com- 
fortable for all our lives ; here we are, brought 
together by an extraordinary circumstance, 
and forced into friendship by the gratitude of 
a man whose money we are going to spend in 
the enjoyment of the good things of this life. 
One of the best things in life is a good dinner ; 
another of the best things in life is good com- 
panionship. Let us enter into a compact to 
dine here all together in this very room, in the 
jolly Silver Flagon, every year, on the anniver- 
sary of this happy day.’ 

“Now in the will there was a sentence to the 
effect that the legator would be glad if those to 
whom he bequeathed his money would become 
friends; and the proposition of Reuben Thorne’s 
seemed to open a way to this consummation. 
Elated and excited, we there and then entered 
into a solemn compact, drawn up and signed 
by every one of us, to meet regularly every 
year, and dine together as we were doing on 


that day. And, furthermore, we solemnly 
pledged ourselves to have no more than thir- 
teen at the table, and that as one and another 
died, his chair and place at the table should be 
kept for him, and that the vacant chair should 
receive all the attention which would be given 
to it if a living person occupied the seat. This 
compact, solemnly made, was solemnly kept. 
Year after year we met ; one died, another died, 
the young lovers I have mentioned were found 
dead in the river ;* chair after chair became va- 
cant ; and still every year the dinner for thir- 
teen was served in the old room in The Sil- 
ver Flagon. Gerald, I have outlived them all ; 
for two years I have dined alone. Of all those 
thirteen I am the only one left.” 

“A strange story indeed,” remarked Gerald 
Hunter; and respecting his companion’s evident 
desire not to sppak further on the subject, he 
preserved silence — a silence broken presently 
by Mr. Weston saying : 

“A little while ago, Gerald, you made a re- 
mark which surprised me. You spoke of your 
eager hunt after gold. If I have grown some- 
what nervous, you also are changed in this re- 
spect, supposing you meant what you said.” 

“ I did mean it. All my body and soul, all 
my pulses were wrapped in the hunt. Ah, you 
little know what the gold fever is !” 

“ But that you should have it, Gerald ! You 
of all men in the world — you who once despised 
money, and set it at naught!” 

“As I despise it and set it at naught now, in 
comparison with other and better things. Tru- 
ly, I believe that there was a fair ekcuse for 
my giving way to the fever. I wanted money, 
Richard — not for myself, for another. Yes, no 
purely selfish motive influenced me. But you 
shall hear all by and by — that is, if — ” 

“ Speak, Gerald.” 

“If you are not changed — if you are the 
same Westop as of old. If you are not, but 
nod your head at me, and I will shake you by 
the hand once more, and go my way.” 

“Gerald, Gerald!” expostulated Mr. Wes- 
ton. 

“Nay, I mean what I say. It would be 
human nature. I should be sorry that I had 
met you again, but I should fling the memory 
of this meeting from me with all the force of 
my will, and would strive my hardest to rein- 
state you, unsullied, in my heart.” He spoke 
with earnest vehemence, and if any impression 
was in Mr. Weston’s mind as to the manifest 
difference in their stations in life — judging from 
outward appearances — it vanished for the time 
at Gerald’s words. 

“Recall for me,” he said, “some words I 
spoke to you once when we were opening our 
hearts to one another.” 

“ Special words ?” 

“ Special words, with reference to our friend- 
ship,” replied Mr. Weston, in a tone of anxiety 
lest his friend should fail to remember them. 

“So many!” pondered Gerald ; “ but I can 
speak the words that are in your mind, I think. 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


‘ Once my friend, always my friend ; remember 
that, Gerald.’ ” 

“ Those are the words, and I say to you 
now, ‘ Once my friend, always my friend ; re- 
member that, Gerald.’ ” 

They qlasped hands again. 

“Well said, and well remembered. Yet you 
are a magistrate, custos rotulorum ” — Gerald 
laughed at the remembrance of the laborer — 
“and I — well, I am something very like a 
vagabond. Look at my patched clothes — see 
my wealth.” He pulled out of his pocket all 
the money he had in the world, amounting to 
between thirty and forty pounds, and counted 
it over, half merrily and half wistfully. “If 
you knew how precious these bits of gold are to 
me, Richard, you would wonder !” 

“ I wonder as it is, Gerald.” 

“Well you may. Do you think I care for 
this dross for my own sake ? Thank God, no ! 
But lately — only within these last few weeks — 
I have grown to know the pitiless power of 
money, and to thirst for it !” 

“ I will help you, Gerald,” said Mr. Weston, 
strongly moved by his friend’s passion ; “ I will 
help you.” 

“It is for my daughter,” murmured Gerald, 
“not for myself; for my daughter, dearer to 
me than my blood, than my life ! ' Let me but 
see her happy, and sheltered from storms, and 
I can say good-bye to the world with a smile 
on my lips.” 

They were standing now by the side of the 
grave, with fresh flowers about it. A plain 
tombstone was raised above it, with the simple 
inscription : 

2To t£e JUentonj of 
CLARA. 

Love sweetens all. 

Love levels all. 

“A good creed,” said Gerald, gazing with 
moistened eyes upon the inscription ; “ truly, 
love sweetens life, and love, like death, makes 
all men equal.” 

And over the grave of the woman whom 
they both had loved the friends again joined 
hands. 


VI. 

MR. LEWIS NATHAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF. 

If you do not know that Gerald Hunter and 
Mr. Hart are one and the same person, I have 
been very unskillful in my narration. As there 
will presently come another Gerald into the 
scene, our dear old friend .must henceforward 
bear only his surname. 

A few words are necessary to fill up the 
gap in our story. Directly Mr. Hunter and 
Margaret arrived home, he sought out William 
Smith’s mother, and executed his friend’s com- 
mission. This done, to the extravagant de- 
light of the old woman (you may be sure that 
Mr. Hunter was not sparing in his praises of 


William Smith), Mr. Hunter and Margaret set 
off for Devonshire. He had confided his dar- 
ling Lucy to the care of friends, so called, who 
had promised to look after her as a daugh- 
ter. When her father was announced, the gen- 
tle girl ran into his arms, sobbing, and begged 
him never again to leave her. He then dis- 
covered that she had for the last two or three 
years led an unhappy life in the house, and 
that she was nothing less than a dependent 
there. He chid her gently for allowing him to 
remain in ignorance of the true state of affairs, 
and he released her at once from her bondage. 

“We will never be parted again, my dar- 
ling,” he said, with fond caresses; “your fa- 
ther will protect you now.” 

She clung to him affectionately. They Were 
proud of each other, this old man and his daugh- 
ter. She dried her tears, and looked into his 
face with a smile on her lips. i 

“That’s right, my darling,” he said; “be 
brave, be brave !” 

She shook her head seriously. 

“Ah, but I’m not brave,” she replied ; “ not 
a bit — not a little tiny bit. That is why I am 
so glad you have come home to take care of 
me.” 

He confided her to the charge of Margaret, 
telling her that Lucy was his pride, his heart, 
the flower of his life. Before they were in 
each other’s company an hour, these two girls 
— for Margaret, although a woman in sorrow, 
was but a girl in years — were like sisters. Mr. 
Hunter’s face was radiant as he saw them sit- 
ting together and observed their affectionate 
demeanor. Their natures, however, were dif- 
ferent. Margaret, as you have seen in her 
happier days, was sparkling, vivacious, restless; 
Lucy was timid, yielding, more passive. The 
passions that agitated Margaret’s breast were 
at once seen on the surface, in all their strength ; 
those by which Lucy was moved were unrevcal- 
ed — except to the eyes of love, in her quieter 
aspect, whether of joy or sorrow. These two 
girls fell immediately into their natural posi- 
tions. Margaret assumed the office of protect- 
or, and Lucy, to whom dependence was a pleas- 
ure, accepted with much gratefulness the shield 
which her new friend threw before her. Each, 
in her turn, thanked Mr. Hunter for giving her 
such a friend. 

They had lodgings in the heart of Plymouth. 
Margaret and Mr. Hunter, setting out in. quest 
of them, saw in a shop-window the announce- 
ment that rooms were to be let in that house. 
The shop was a clothes -shop of not the best 
kind, and at the door stood a man of Jewish 
aspect, who seemed attracted by Margaret’s 
face. 

“Did you notice how that man stared at 
you, Margaret ?” asked Mr. Hunter. 

“No,” was the reply, in an indifferent tone. 

She turned, and saw the man still staring at 
her. He was loosely and somewhat slovenly 
dressed, but his eye was so wonderfully spark- 
ling, and his handsome face (although he was 


G2 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


fifty years of age) wore such a cheerful and al- 
most philanthropic expression, that the chances 
were if your eyes rested once upon him you 
would turn again to look. 

The man came forward. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, in a slightly 
guttural tone, “ but are you strangers in Plym- 
outh ?” 

He did not look at Mr. Hunter. 

“ We are strangers,” replied Mr. Hunter. 

“ I thought so — I thought so. Can I do any 
thing for you ?” 

“No, thank you,” said Mr. Hunter; “we 
don’t want any clothes.” 

“Ah, that’s a pity ; I could have served you 
cheap. But I didn’t mean in that way, though 
I’m always rea,dy for business — always ready. 
I know a custoQjy^r wlilen I see one. I’m an 
old resident here, and> there is something you 
might want to know.” 

“We are looking for lodgings.” 

The shopkeeper replied eagerly, “I’ve the 
very thing you want, the very thing. Two 
rooms or four — made for you, made for you.” 

“You sell all your things ready-made,” ob- 
served Mr. Hunter, with a humorous look. 

“Yes, yes,” said the shopkeeper, with a ready 
smile, rubbing his hands slowly over one an- 
other, as though he were washing them with 
invisible soap; “all ready-made, all ready- 
made.” 

What most attracted you toward this man 
were his eyes. They fairly sparkled with hu- 
mor and geniality. But for fheir remarkable 
brightness Mr. Hunter would have passed on, 
had he been allowed to do so ; but for the mat- 
ter of that, the shopkeeper might have stood in 
his way, being, as are all his race, singularly te- 
nacious in the negotiation of a bargain. And 
here there was a bargain in question ; these 
strangers wanted lodgings, he had lodgings to 
let. To hesitate with such a man is to be lost. 
Mr. Hunter hesitated. 

“ Come and see them,” said the shopkeeper ; 
and did not wait for acquiescence in words, but 
led the way. They followed him, like sheep. 
There was magnetism in the man. He would 
make you buy a thing if you did not want it. 
That you did not want it did not matter to him ; 
he had it to sell. To sell it was his business ; 
and in his business he, as a representative man, 
beat the world. 

Mr. Hart and Margaret walked through the 
shop, the shelves of which groaned beneath the 
weight of ready-made clothes, up a flight of 
stairs to the first floor. There were four com- 
fortable rooms on the floor, comfortably fur- 
nished. The shopkeeper reveled in his descrip- 
tion of the rooms ; to have heard him you would 
have believed the house was a palace. “ Look 
at the view,” said he ; “ look at the furniture ; 
look at this couch— rsit on it, it won’t hurt you ; 
real horsehair. Now just oblige me, and sit in 
this arm-chair — only to oblige me. What do 
you think of it ? Is it easy, is it comfortable ? 
Look at the pictures, look at the piano — run 


your fingers over it ; look at the carpet. Here ! 
sound the walls” (as though there was music in 
them) ; “ look at the loftiness” (as though there 
was magic in the ceiling); “look at the orna- 
ments; look at the fireplace.” And all the 
while he was dilating upon the excellences of 
the apartments he was washing his hands with 
invisible soap, and his face was beaming with 
geniality. Such capital hands as he at a bar- 
gain never betray anxiety. 

“ They are really very comfortable,” said Mr. 
Hunter, apart, to Margaret ; “ what do you say 
to them?” 

“ If you are satisfied, I am,” she replied, list- 
lessly. She could not be roused to take inter- 
est in any thing. 

“ I am afraid he is a Jew,” said Mr. Hunter 
in a confidential whisper. 

The shopkeeper heard the reitfark, and he 
smiled — a superior smile. “Don’t be afraid,” 
he said good-humoredly, showing a fine set of 
white teeth. “ I sha’n’t bite you.” 

Mr. Hunter was remorseful ; he was afraid 
he had hurt the man’s feeling. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said, flushing up. 

“ For what ?” asked the shopkeeper. “ For 
saying you were afraid I was a Jew ? My dear 
sir, I am a Jew, and I’m proud of it, proud of 
it.” And then he made this singular state- 
ment: “If I hadn’t been a Jew, I shouldn’t 
have spoken to this young lady.” 

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Hunter, in a tone 
which invited an explanation. 

“You wouldn’t take me for a Jew from my 
appearance,” continued the shopkeeper, thus 
giving utterance to a strange hallucination in- 
dulged in by many of the race, for the speak- 
er’s Jewish cast of features was unmistakable ; 
“but perhaps my name over the shop - door 
was enough for you.” 

“ No,” said Mr. Hunter ; “I did not observe 
your name.” 

“The letters are big enough, any way; ev- 
ery man and woman in Plymouth knows Lewis 
Nathan.”" 

Margaret looked up with a sudden exclama- 
tion of surprise, and advanced a step toward 
Mr. Nathan. 

“What name did you sfay?” she asked, with 
a strange fluttering at her breast. 

“Lewis Nathan, my dear,” he replied, in an „ 
earnest fatherly tone ; and then, more earnest- 
ly still, “ Have you heard it before, my dear ?” 

She did not reply to him, but drew Mr. Hun- 
ter aside, and whispered a few words to him in 
an agitated manner. 

“We will take the rooms,” said Mr. Hunter 
to Mr. Nathan, “if<the terms are suitable; we 
are bound to consider them, for we are not rich. 
We have only been in England a few days, and 
we do not know how long we may stop; so we 
can not take them for any definite time.” 

“ The terms will suit you ; I’ll make them 
suit you,” said Mr. Nathan, with a strange ob- 
liviousness of self-interest. “You can take 
possession at once — you and your daughter.” 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


“ This lady is not mv daughter ; I have a 
daughter who will live with us; I will bring 
her here to-day.” 

“And is that all — only three?” 

“ Only three of us. You seem disappointed 
that there are no more.” 

“I thought— I thought,” said Mr. Nathan, 
hesitating, “ that this young lady had a moth- 
er.” 

“ She is dead, poor soul !” murmured Marga- 
ret, with tears. 

Mr. Nathan turned aside, trembling some- 
what, and when he addressed them again his 
voice was softer and his eyes were dim. 

“Don’t think me impertinent, my dear,” he 
said, drawing closer to Margaret, “ but was 
your mother — rest her soul! — ever in Plym- 
outh ?” 

“ She lived here for a long time.” 

“I have lived here all my life ; I thought I 
recognized your face, though you are taller, but 
not prettier, my dear, not prettier. Did she — 
forgive me if I’m wrong — did she have any 
thing to do with the stage?” 

“She was an actress, sir, and I have often 
heard her mention your name.” 

“ Kindly, my dear ?” 

“Always kindly, always.” 

Mr. Nathan sat down, and hid his face in his 
hands. Margaret approached him, and placed 
her hand on his shoulder; he looked up with 
tears in his eyes. 

“And you’re her daughter,” he said, taking 
her hand and kissing it. “She was a good 
creature, rest her soul. What is your name ?” 

“You must call me Margaret.” 

“ So I will, my dear, so I will. Why, it’s like 
old times come again, my dear. What a piece 
of luck it is that you passed my shop ! I’m as 
pleased as if I’d done a fine day’s business.” 

It was in this way that Margaret came to 
the house of her mother’s Jewish lover; and 
there they lived together, she and Lucy, and 
Lucy’s father, for many weeks before the day 
on which Mr. Hunter discovered where the 
sign of The Silver Flagon was hung, and in 
which he met with the old friends of his youth. 
Those few weeks were full of anxieties. Mar- 
garet was still very despondent ; his daughter 
Lucy was growing thin and pale, and his own 
funds were running short. The prospect was 
not a cheerful one. Mr. Lewis Nathan was so 
good a friend, and had, from the force of his 
own genuineness and honesty of character, so 
found his way to their hearts, that Mr. Hunter 
confided in him his money troubles. Mr. Na- 
than offered to lend him money — without in- 
terest, be it remarked. 

“No,” said Mr. Hunter, “I am able to earn 
it — or should be.” 

“In what way?” asked Mr. Nathan. 

“I am an actor,” replied Mr. Hunter; and 
thereupon, to Mr. Nathan’s great delight, re- 
lated to him the history of Hart’s Star Dra- 
matic Company. 


G3 

“I know the proprietor of the theatre here,” 
then said Mr. Nathan ; “I lend him costumes 
often. Margaret’s mother played on his stage. 
I’ll get an engagement for you.” 

He was as good as his word, and once more 
Mr. Hunter was on the boards, playing old 
men this time ; while Mr. Nathan sat in front, 
and led the applause. He played under an as- 
sumed name, and kept it as long as he could 
from Lucy and Margaret. One night he found 
them both waiting for him outside the theatre. 
Mr. Nathan was with him. 

“I’ve a good mind never to forgive you,” 
said Margaret to Mr. Nathan. 

Mr. Nathan would have meekly borne the 
blame, but that Mr. Hunter told Margaret the 
real state of affairs. “My purse was almost 
empty, Margaret, and Mr. Nathan wanted to 
fill it. But I couldn’t accept his money while 
I was able to work. And really the engage- 
ment is not a bad one, and I am already a great 
favorite with the audience and the company.” 

“ I should think you were, ” she cried ; “ who 
could help loving you ?” 

“Nay, nay, my dear child — ” 

She interrupted him impetuously, “I mean 
it ! I mean it ! You are always doing noble 
things, always ! Do you think I shall ever for- 
get how you risked your own life to save that 
of my darling Philip’s ? In vain, alas ! in vain. 
And before that too! Did you not save him 
from being stung to death ? But if you are 
strong enough to work, how much stronger am 
I ? I will go on the stage again, and earn mon- 
ey for us. I will ! I will !” 

He would scarcely listen to the proposition ; 
but she was so determined, that he could only 
pacify her by promising her that if they could 
not find Philip’s father before the end of threfe 
months, she should be allowed to have her way. 
When the contest was over, she went to Mr. 
Nathan, and took his face between her pretty 
hands and kissed him. 

“ I don’t wonder my poor dear mother was 
fond of you,” she said. “And now tell me why 
you have never married.” 

“I never saw. any one but your mother that 
I cared for, my .dear,” replied Mr. Nathan ; 
“she would have married me if I had turned 
Christian.” 

“And you would have married her if she 
had turned Jewess?” 

“ Yes, it is so.” 

“You are as good a man as any Christian,” 
cried Margaret. 

“I hope so, my dear,” said Lewis Nathan, 
with outward meekness ; believing in his heart, 
I have no doubt, that he was much better. 
But that’s none of our business. 

And here I must say some special words. 
Very few, if any one of my readers, would have 
supposed that Mr. Nathan was a Jew, if the 
fact had not been disclosed to them in the pre- 
ceding lines. They would not have supposed 
so, simply because he speaks in fairly good En- 
glish, and because it has hitherto been the in- 


G4 AT TIIE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


variable rule in English fiction to represent a 
Jew as speaking a kind of outrageous jargon, 
which has its source only in the imagination of 
writers who are either prejudiced or not well in- 
formed upon the matter. It is time the fallacy 
was exploded. An English Jew speaks as good 
English as an English Christian does. The 
“ S’help me’s!” and the “Ma tears!” and the 
“Veil! veil! veil’s!” which in English fiction 
and on the English stage are set down as in- 
dispensable in the portrayal of an English Jew, 
are ridiculous, and to a certain extent mis- 
chievous perversions of fact. They do not be- 
long to the very lowest class of English Jews, 
who, as a rule, speak their language much more 
correctly than English costermongers. The 
English complain, with justice, that they are 
never properly represented upon the French 
stage ; the English Jews may, with equal justice 
and equal truth, assert that their position in 
English fiction is a much more gross caricature 
than the representation of the typical English- 
man in a French theatre. 

Now, our Mr. Lewis Nathan spoke exceed- 
ingly good English, and in this fiction, at all 
events, he will be faithfully represented. 


VII. 

MARGARET TAKES THE HELM. 

Mr. Hunter rushed into the room where 
Lucy and Margaret were sitting, and blurted 
out the news most interesting to Margaret. 
He had found The Silver Flagon ; he had been 
to the house, and had seen Philip’s father, with- 
out, however, saying a word of Philip or Mar- 
garet. 

“ That can be done to-morrow or the next 
day,” he said ; “ it is a matter that requires del- 
icate handling.” 

Margaret sat with white face and dilating 
eyes, and listened to him in silence. Lucy 
turned a beseeching face toward her. 

“I think,” said Margaret slowly, “that we 
will wait a little while before we go to him.” 

“No, no,” exclaimed Mr. Hunter, “we will 
go to-morrow. My child, it is for your good. 
Delays are dangerous. Ah, I know well how 
dangerous they are !” This with a tender look 
at his daughter. 

“We don’t know how he will receive us,” 
persisted Margaret. 

“In what other way can he receive you, my 
dear child, than with open arms ?” 

“Still,” said Margaret, firmly, “I think we 
will wait for a little while. You will not turn 
me away, will you ?” 

“ Child ! child ! I love you. Have I not 
two daughters?” 

“And I love you,” she said softly, “and I 
can not bear the idea of separation.” She 
opened her arms to Lucy, who threw hers 
around her friend’s neck, and rested her head 
on Margaret’s shoulder. 


“I’ll not allow it ! I’ll not allow it!” cried 
Mr. Hunter, pacing the room with agitated 
steps. “Duty — duty, before all ! ” 

“No,” responded Margaret; “love — love, 
before all ! Lucy, go away ; I must speak to 
this obstinate hard-hearted father alone.” 

“Ah, no,” murmured Lucy, taking shelter 
now in her father’s arms, who folded her to his 
heart, and held her there, and kissed her sad 
face. many times; “I have no hard-hearted 
father.” 

“ Go out — go out !” exclaimed Margaret, im- 
petuously. “I’ll not have two to one against 
me!” 

She pushed Lucy out of the room with af- 
fectionate force, kissing her first very, very ten- 
derly. Then she began to cry, not quietly, but 
stormily ; Mr. Hurtter was no less agitated than 
she, but he suppressed his emotion, and ob- 
served her in silence. 

“Now,” she said, when she was sufficiently 
calm, “ I am better, and can talk to you.” 

“What is the meaning of this?” questioned 
Mr. Hunter, in a tone so low that he might 
have been speaking to himself. 

“Dear friend,” she said, drawing him to a 
seat by her side, and holding his hand in hers, 
“let me have my willful way; I have a reason 
for it, a strong reason. I love Lucy, and can 
not you see that Lucy loves me ?” 

“I know, I know,” he replied ; “but I can 
not lose sight of your welfare. I am poor ; I 
can place you at once in comfort ; a plain duty 
is before me.” 

“Do you remember how my darling Philip, 
with his dying breath, asked you to be a father 
to me? And do you want now to drive me 
from you?” 

“I do remember. I do not want to drive 
you from me. But our dear Philip, with his 
dying breath, bade me take you to his father. 
That was his charge to me, and I shall obey 
it.” 

“And you shall obey it — by and by; not 
now; not now!” 

“At once — without delay ! I paltered with 
my own happiness by delaying ; I will not pal- 
ter with yours in the same way.” 

He spoke in a tone so firm and decided that 
she was driven almost to despair. 

“Obstinate, obstinate!” she murmured; 
“hard and unkind!” 

“Margaret — Margaret!” he cried. “Do 
you want to break my heart ?” 

“No,” she replied, with sudden vehemence ; 
the words seemed to*come from her without 
any will of her own ; “I want to save it from 
breaking !” 

Terror and doubt were expressed in his face. 

“Speak plainly,” he said, breathing, quickly ; 
“ it is about Lucy.” 

“It is about her. What is your dearest 
wish?” 

“ Her happiness.” 

“ Drive me from her, and I'll not answer for 
the consequences. Oh, this is no piece of cun- 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


nmg on my part, so that I may have my own 
way ! It is the truth. Do you not see that 
she is growing paler and thinner every day ?” 

“ I have seen it— I have tried to believe it 
was a trick played upon me by my fears ; but 
I see now that it is as you say. It must be the 
confinement in this narrow street, in this close 
town — ” 

“It is not the confinement,” interrupted 
Margaret ; *« Lucy is of such a nature that she 
would thrive in a cage if her heart were not 
disturbed. A secret sorrow is wearing her 
away — a sorrow that she keeps to herself, and 
which only one person in the world has the' 
power to wean from her. No, that person is 
not you — it is I, Margaret ! She has not told 
me yet — but as if I needed telling! I want to 
know but one thing— the name of the man !” 

“The name of the man!” echoed Mr. Hun- 
ter, in a bewildered tone. “In Heaven’s name, 
what man ?” 

“ The man she loves, and who has led her to 
believe that he loves her.” 

“You know all this?” 

“By instinct only — a fine teacher; better 
than reason.” (He had not the heart to play 
with her words, or he would have said, “None 
but a woman can utter them;” but this new 
grief was too deep for light thought.) “ She 
is a woman, and wants a woman’s heart to rest 
upon in this crisis. She has no mother or 
sister. Dear friend, that I love with all my 
strength ! that I honor with all my soul ! let 
me be sister and mother to your Lucy ! You 
can not deny me this ! It may be in my power 
to repay you, in some small way, for your fa- 
therly care of me, for your love and devotion to 
my darling Philip, and you will not rob me of 
the opportunity. If I can bring back, the smile 
to your Lucy’s lips, the roses to her cheek — if 
I can bring joy to'her heart, I shall again taste 
happiness which I thought I had lost forever!” 

If his stake had been smaller in this matter, 
he could not have resisted her pleading, and he 
yielded without another word of remonstrance. 
He was so broken down by this disclosure that 
she was compelled to beg of him to hide his 
sorrow from Lucy’s eyes. 

li She must not know or suspect that we have 
been speaking of her,” said Margaret ; “ this 
sensitive flower that we both love so dearly 
must be dealt with.very tenderly — and wisely 
too, and cunningly, if needs be.” 

His words in the conversation that followed 
showed that he had lost faith in himself, and 
that he placed his hope solely in this affection- 
ate woman, to whom sorrow had come so early. 
Up to this point he had not told her of the 
strange meeting with his boy-friend, Richard 
Weston, and presently, when he was more com- 
posed, he related the incident to her. 

“We are to go to his house to-morrow,” he 
said, “Lucy and I.” 

“And I go with you, of course,” said Mar- 
garet. “ I shall contrive to make myself wel- 
come. Tell me. When you took Lucy away j 


65 

from the house of the persons with whom she 
lived for so many years, did you let them know 
your present address ?” 

“ No ; I was anxious to sever all possible con- 
nection in the future with such false friends.” 

“Then,” said Margaret, with a wise look, 
“ how could he (Lucy’s he, I mean) come to see 
her, when you as good as hid her from him. 
There is hope — there is hope— I see hope al- 
ready !” She kissed him blithely. “Another 
thing — about myself this time. Mr. Weston’s 
son is named Gerald ! Does not that strike 
you as strange ?” 

“It was a mark of affectionate remembrance 
of an old friend, my dear.” 

“ I know that ; but strange in another way. 
Have you forgotten the packet which my dar- 
ling Philip confided to your care ? The prop- 
erty of Gerald, and to be opened only by him. 
What if your Mr. Weston’s Gerald ‘should be 
Philip’s Gerald? It isn’t so very unlikely. 
Mr. Weston’s house is not very far from The 
Silver Flagon, and my Philip was the equal of 
any man. This Gerald must be nearly Philip’s 
age — a little younger, perhaps. And my poor 
darling went to college. Do you not see ? Do 
you not see ?” 

She spoke very excitedly, and Mr. Hunter 
gazed at her in admiration. “There is rea- 
son in what you say, Margaret. These broken 
links may form a chain.” 

“So now all is settled,” she said, “and I 
am to have my own way in every thing.” 

“Yes, my dear,” he replied ; “ you are more 
fit to take the helm than I. I am breaking 
down fast — I feel it.” 

“Lucy! Lucy!” cried Margaret, going to 
the door. “Here is our father threatening to 
become melancholy. Come and help me to 
cheer him up. Ah, I know what we’ll do. 
First we’ll have a kiss all round, and then I’ll 
ask Mr. Nathan to take us out for a drive. 
He’ll do it.” She held up her little finger. “ I 
can twist him round this, my dear.” 


VIII. 

“she never told her love.” 

Old Mr. Weston, a great magnate in his 
neighborhood, a wealthy man, the owner of a 
fine estate, a justice of the peace, and what not, 
had been surprised out of himself by the sud- 
den meeting with his friend, Gerald Hunter, 
from whom he had been separated when they 
were almost boys, or at all events before either 
of them had experienced those trials and temp- 
tations, the reception and handling of which 
give the true stamp to a man’s character. Our 
dear friend, Gerald Hunter, had passed through 
the fire unscathed. His fine, honest nature 
shone steadily in the midst of every temp- 
tation ; it never flickered or wavered when 
brought into contact with opportunity which 
by dishonesty or trickery could be turned to 


G6 


AT THE SIGN OF TI3 

his advantage at another person’s expense. His 
conscience was a touchstone, and he was guided 
by it; rogue could never be written on the 
sleeve of his jacket. That he was occasionally 
worsted by knaves distressed him, but did not 
embitter him ; nor did it cause him to swerve. 
He was — to use a phrase I once heard from an 
American, who was speaking of one he admired 
— emphatically a straight man. 

To all outward appearance, Mr. Weston, 
when he was a young man, bade fair to rival 
his friend in genuineness and honesty of char- 
acter ; but the result falsified the promise. 
Money had spoiled him as it spoils many a thou- 
sand men and women every year of our lives, 
and it is strictly true to state that he would 
have been a better man had he been less pros- 
perous. I sometimes think what a dreadful 
world this would be if every person in it had 
more money than was needed for his require- 
ments. Great prosperity is a heavy burden, 
and one can keep one’s moral balance much 
better in the storms of misfortune than if all 
his worldly desires were satisfied. More men 
are wrecked upon golden sands than upon ster- 
ile rocks of stone. So, in course of time, 
the young man who had won the love and es- 
teem of Gerald Hunter became overweighted 
by prosperity, and over all the finest qualities 
of his nature crept a crust of worldliness which 
hardened and grew firmer with his years. 
These changes in character are common enough. 

I have in my eye now a young man whom I 
have known for a few years ; a meek, quiet lad 
he was, with a mild and gentle face, advancing 
liis opinions, when he could muster sufficient 
confidence, with a timid and unassuming air, 
which seemed to be the natural outcome of a 
kind and modest soul. This young man, hav- 
ing had a start in life, is fast developing beneath 
my observation into a solemn humbug, and he 
is already, with a seriousness which would be 
laughable if it were not lamentable, dealing 
very largely in a certain kind of stereotyped 
milk-and-water religious sentiment, which he 
parades (having the opportunity) with a long, 
sedate, and melancholy face, with all the au- 
thority of a Solon, before men and women who 
have grown gray in the service of the years. 
If I have the good fortune to live a dozen years, 
and then to meet this wretched prig (for I know 
exactly what he will grow into) dealing out his 
milk-and-water platitudes, I dare say I shall 
wonder what has become of the meek, modest 
lad whose gentle face first attracted my notice, 
and Avon my favor. 

As, in the same Avay, shall Mr. Hunter pres- 
ently wonder Avhathas become of the frank and 
generous friend he kneAv in his youth, and whom 
he has cherished in his heart for so many, 
many years. 

How, then, to account for the part Mr. Wes- 
ton played in the interview which took place in 
the sweet l)e\ r onshire lane, Avhere the fairy. bells 
of the feather-grass were SAvinging to and fro 
in the clear Avaters of the brook? As I have 


E SILVER FLAGON. 

said at the commencement of this chapter, he 
Avas surprised out of himself by the strange and 
sudden meeting ; old memories had penetrated 
the crust of Avorldliness Avhich now overlaid the 
better part of his nature, and for a little Avhile 
the present Avas forgotten, and unconsciously 
set aside. He found it, indeed, a pleasant sen- 
sation to yield to the SAveet Avaves of youthful 
remembrance which the appearance of Gerald 
Hunter had conjured up, and Avorldlv as he Avas, 
he honestly resolved to help his friend a lit- 
tle. Still, Avhen in the latter part of the day 
he thought over the interview, he confessed to 
himself that it would have been much more 
agreeable to him if his friend had been Avell- 
dressed and well-to-do. 

Nevertheless, he gaA*e Mr. Hunter a- cordial 
welcome to his house, a great part of his cordi- 
ality arising. from a sense of satisfaction at being 
able to shoAv his friend how Avell he had got on 
in the Avorld. 

“And this is your daughter,” he said, taking 
Lucy’s hand; “ I may use an old man’s privi- 
lege.” 

When he took her hand, Lucy gave a little 
start of surprise, Avhich only one person noticed. 

Then he turned to Margaret, and shook hands 
with her. At her otvn request, she Avas intro- 
duced to him by her maiden name. “ I don’t 
want to be known yet as Mrs. RoAve,” she had 
said. 

It did not occur to Mr. Hunter that there 
Avas any change in the nature of his old friend, 
as they stood gazing into each other’s faces, 
Avhere lines and wrinkles Avere. It Avas one of 
his tricks to judge others by himself. 

“You look ten years younger than I,” ob- 
served Mr. Weston. 

“I have not been harassed by the cares of 
property,” replied Mr. Hunter, Avith a smile. 

Mr. Weston sighed — an eloquent sigh, which 
expressed, “Ah, you little know hoAv harassing 
those cares are !” and at the same time a proud 
sigh at the possession of them. 

Then said Margaret the tactician, after a feAV 
minutes’ chat, during which she had been act- 
ing a part toward the old gentleman, 

“You old friends must have a great deal to 
say to each other, and the presence of two fool- 
ish Avomen will not help you.” 

“I Avould not hear your enemy say so,” said 
Mr. Hunter. 

“ Say Avhat ?” 

“That you are a foolish Avoman.” 

“ Well quoted, Gerald, Avell quoted,” acqui- 
esced Mr. Weston, gayly. 

Margaret made a demure courtesy, and con- 
tinued, addressing Mr. Weston, 

“As we are to spend the day in your beauti- 
ful house — ” 

“Nay,” he interrupted, “you are to spend 
a Aveek or two at least Avith me.” 

“Ah,” rejoined the Avily Margaret, to make 
her ground sure, “but you did not count upon 
an additional incumbrance in the shape of Me.” 

“An incumbrance, my dear young lady !” ex- 


67 


AT TIIE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


claimed Mr. Weston, completely won over, as 
she intended he should be — she hadn’t been 
an actress for nothing. “ Have at her with an- 
other quotation, Gerald !” 

“Thou shalt have five thousand welcomes,” 
said Mr. Hunter, readily, “ without the five- 
pence, Margaret.” 

“ Bravo ! bravo !” cried Mr. Weston. “ My 
friend’s friends are mine. I shall be delighted 
with your society.” 

Indeed, he was unexpectedly pleased with 
the two girls ; they were well dressed, and bore 
themselves like ladies — as they were — and this 
gratified the old worldling. 

“Very well, then,” said Margaret, with a 
bewitching smile ; “I could not say.No on less 
persuasion. So I propose that you two gentle- 
men run away and chat, and leave Lucy and 
me to amuse ourselves, if you are not afraid to 
trust us.” 

Mr. Weston, thinking to himself, “Really, a 
very charming creature !” made a gallant reply, 
and taking his friend’s arm, walked with him 
into the garden. 

Margaret and Lucy sat or strolled in the 
balcony which fringed the windows of the first 
floor of the house. Margaret, in her tender 
watchfulness of Lucy, had observed the little 
start of surprise which Lucy had given on see- 
ing Mr. Weston, and she found a difficulty in 
accounting for it. 

“ Lucy,” she said, “ have you met Mr. Wes- 
ton before to-day ?” 

“No, Margaret,” was Lucy’s answer. 
“What makes you ask?” 

“ Something in your face — that’s all.” 

There was something in Lucy’s face while 
these few words were being uttered— a blush, 
which quickly died out, leaving it paler than 
before. Margaret instantly began putting two 
and two together. An easy task, some of you 
may think. You are much mistaken. It is a 
task which requires, and often defies, abstruse 
calculation, and where a man will succeed in it 
once, a woman will succeed a hundred times. 
There are three great discoveries yet to be made 
in the world — perpetual motion, how to square 
the circle, and how many beans make five. 
Depend upon it, if they ever are discovered, they 
will be placed to the credit of women. 

Less difficult, certainly, than any of these, 
was the task upon which Margaret was at pres- 
ent engaged. But shrewd as she was, she was 
far from seeing her way clearly. The sum was 
not completely set before her. There was a 
figure wanting. 

“I don’t quite know, Lucy,” she said, 
“whether I like Mr. Weston.” 

Lucy looked at Margaret reproachfully. Not 
like her father’s old friend ! Why, what could 
Margaret be thinking about ? But Margaret, 
had she pleased, could have justified hers’elf. 
She had, or fancied she had, observed an ex- 
pression of uneasiness and dissatisfaction on 
Mr. Weston’s face when his eyes rested on his 
friend’s clothes. They were decent, but not 


new ; and if they had been new they would not 
have been fine. This uneasy glance lasted 
but an instant, but it had made an impression 
on Margaret’s mind not easily to be effaced. 
“ Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirma- 
tion strong as proofs of holy writ;” and Mar- 
garet was a woman who judged by trifles. It 
is strange that this should be rare when the wav- 
ing of a straw proclaims how the wind blows. 

It was a lovely summer’s day, and the beau- 
tiful grounds which surrounded Mr. Weston’s 
house were bright with color. Every material 
comfort that could make life enjoyable was to 
be found within this pretty estate. The house 
was luxuriantly furnished ; the gardens were 
carefully tended ; and evidences of good taste 
met the eye on every side. Noticing these 
substantial signs of comfort and refinement, 
Margaret noticed, also, that Mr. Weston was 
directing the attention of his friend to the 
beauty of the place. To her eyes there was 
ostentation in his manner. “He is proud of 
his wealth,” she said, and fell again to the study 
of her sum of two and two. While thus em- 
ployed, her eyes wandered to Lucy’s face. It 
was very sad and pitiful. Margaret had play- 
ed the part of Maria in Twelfth Night, and 
Viola’s words came to her mind : 

“ She never told her love, 

But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, 

Feed on her damask cheek ; she pined in thought.” 

As Lucy was pining now. Margaret, from her 
woman’s instinct, knew full well that a secret 
sorrow, born of love, was preying on the heart 
of this tender girl, and she was striving to find 
a way into her friend’s confidence, when, at 
that very moment, chance befriended her, and 
the clue for which she was seeking was put 
into her hands. A sudden flame in Lucy’s 
face, a sudden glad light in her eyes, a sudden 
exclamation of pleasure in which her misery 
seemed to die, a sudden uprising of the girl’s 
form toward the framework of the balcony, and 
the secret was revealed, and the sum was done. 


IX. 

lucy’s prince appears upon the scene. 

Following the direction of Lucy’s eyes, 
Margaret saw a young gentleman walking to- 
ward the two old men in the grounds below. 
He paused, and Mr. Weston spoke some words ; 
the next moment Mr. Hunter and the young 
gentleman shook hands warmly. 

“Ah,” thought Margaret, with secret satis- 
faction, “here is our prince. Now all the rest 
is easy.” She was vainfully confident of her 
powers. “So, my dear,” she said aloud to 
Lucy, “we have discovered the grand secret.” 

The flame in Lucy’s cheek grew stronger, 
and she hid her blushes on Margaret’s shoul- 
der.* 

“You will not tell?” she whispered. 

“Not I,” replied Margaret, with tender 


G8 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


caresses; “but do you know, my aear, you 
have been making me very unhappy ? Keep- 
ing a secret, and such a secret, from me!” 

“ Why, Margaret ? You did not suspect?” 

“ Oh no, of course I suspected nothing, being 
naturally dull-witted, and not being a woman. 
Well, but now it is all right. I shall know 
every thing — I must know every thing, from 
A to Z. If you keep a single letter of the 
alphabet from me, I shall run and tell them all 
about it.” 

There was but little to tell. Chance had 
taken the young gentleman, Gerald Weston, 
to the house in which Lucy lived before her 
father’s return home, and having seen Lucy, 
something more than chance had afterward 
directed his steps thither very frequently. I 
am afraid there had been secret meetings, out 
of the house; girls and young men will do 
these things nowadays. Ah, nonsense ! What 
do I mean by nowadays ? Have they not done 
them from time immemorial? Think of the 
delicious secret meetings that must have taken 
place between Jacob and Laban’s daughters in 
the old patriarchal times ! And you, my dear 
lady, whose eyes may haply light on these lines, 
can not you look back upon such-like stolen 
minutes? So these two young persons met 
and met again, and Cupid led the way with 
his torch. Gerald Weston’s love for Lucy was 
an honest love, and it was not long before he 
confessed it, and received in return a confes- 
sion of love from her lips. The simplest of 
stories. 

“But since my dear father has been home,” 
said Lucy, “I have never seen Gerald.” And 
then her joy at beholding her hero vanished, 
and with sad sighs she said, “ He has forgot- 
ten me, Margaret.” 

“That is a discovery I must make for my- 
self, Lucy. I’ll wait till I see him closer ; then 
I shall be able to judge. I can tell the signs, 
and I can read honesty. As for your not hav- 
ing seen him, you darling ! how was that pos- 
sible except by some strange accident, when 
our dear stupid father never told the persons 
you were living with where he was taking you 
to?” 

Lucy’s face grew bright again. 

“Are you sure of that — sure?” 

“Sure, you little simpleton!” exclaimed 
Margaret, aifectionately. “Am I sure that I 
am speaking to you now? Am I sure that 
every thing will come right, and that my dar- 
ling Lucy will be a happy wife before long — as 
I was once, alas ! But never mind me ; I’ve 
something else to think of, and I must put my 
sorrow by for a time. Lucy, Lucy ! he’s com- 
ing this .way, not knowing that you are here, 
of course! Well, I declare he is a handsome 
young fellow ! Shall I go away ?” 

“No, no, Margaret; don’t leave me.” 

For all that, Margaret contrived to slip out 
of the room the moment before Gerald Weston 
entered it. Her intention was to keep guard 
outside, and to prevent either of the fathers en- 


tering and disturbing the lovers. With this 
design, she stationed herself at the door of the 
house which led to the grounds, and presently 
Lucy’s father came toward her. Mr. Weston 
was not with him. 

“ Where is he ? where is he ?” inquired Mar- 
garet, eagerly. 

“He!” echoed Mr. Hunter, smiling at her 
eagerness. “ Which he are you anxious about ? 
The young he must have passed you on the 
staircase. Did you notice him, Margaret ? A 
fine young fellow.” 

“Yes, yes,” cried Margaret, impatiently; 
“but I mean the old he. Is there a back 
way by which he can get in ?” Margaret real- 
ly had the idea of running to the back of the 
house and taking old Mr. Weston captive. 
She was a faithful tiler — a Avord I use not 
with reference to building -tiles, but in the 
Freemason sense. Ladies Avho do not under- 
stand it had best ask a Freemason friend for 
an explanation. 

“You enigma!” exclaimed Mr. Hunter. 

“ My old friend has been carried off by a man 
of business. He is overwhelmed, my dear, by 
the cares of property. By the Avay, Margaret, 

I have accepted an imitation to stay here a 
month. It will do Lucy good.” 

“That it will,” said Margaret, with a quiet 
little laugh to herself. “Am I included in the 
invitation ?” 

« Of course, my dear. Mr. Weston is charm- 
ed with you. You’ve a trick of Avinning hearts, 
Margaret, old and young. But I shall have to 
run aAvay every night to the theatre.” 

“Have you told him that ?” 

“ No, but I shall presently.” 

“ Will you be guided by me ? But Avhat a 
question to ask! You must be. There can 
not be two captains in one ship, and I am cap- 
tain here — absolute captain, mind you.” 

“Very well, my dear.” 

“Therefore you will not inform Mr. Weston 
that you are an actor, and are engaged at the 
theatre. You will invent some other excuse 
for your absence every night; or if you are 
not equal to it, I will invent one for you. No 
remonstrance! I am captain, and I will be 
obeyed. I have my reasons, and you Avill ap- 
prove of them Avhen you hear them — which you 
Avill not till I think fit.” 

“Tyrant!” he cried. “I must obey you, 
then. Now Ave will join Lucy.” 

“ We’ll do nothing of the sort. Don’t 
bother your head about her ; she is quite safe 
and comfortable. I accept all responsibility.” 
(Which sounded very like Greek to Mr. Hun- 
ter, but he had full confidence in Margaret, and 
his anxiety about Lucy was lulled by her gay 
tone.) “ Now tell me every thing you tAvo old 
fogies have been talking about.” 

“ Chiefly of old times. I have heard some 
strange things from him ; he has had at least 
one very strange incident in his life, and he 
has — incline your head, my dear — a Bluebeard’s 
room in the house, a room tnat no one enters 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


but himself. Now don’t you wish you had the 
key?” 

“No; Bluebeard’s room can wait. I want 
to hear something more. You talked of your- 
selves and your prospects.” 

“ Naturally, my dear, and each dilated upon 
the subject nearest to his heart.” 

“You upon Lucy.” 

“And he upon Gerald, his son. My old 
friend has great views for that young gentle- 
man, who has been giving him deep cause for 
anxiety lately. Ah, these children, these chil- 
dren ! how they do vex and gladden our old 
foolish hearts !” 

“Deep cause for anxiety! Dear me! In 
what way, now?” 

“Well, it isn’t a secret, Margaret. No, I am 
wrong there. It must be a secret, for it is al- 
most a family matter; so I’ll not mention it.” 

“But you will ! you will!” cried Margaret, 
vehemently. “I’ll not have any secrets kept 
from me. Now promise me, conceal nothing 
from me. I am prudence itself, though I am 
a woman. I must know every thing — every 
thing! Have you not yet learned to trust 
me?” 

Startled by her earnestness and vehemence, 
for which he could find no cause, he replied 
that he had trusted her with what was most 
dear to him. Had he not, in a measure, placed 
his daughter’s happiness in her hands ? 

“You have,” she replied, “and I hope you 
will live to bless the day that you put such 
trust in me. There, now ; you called me an 
enigma a moment ago. Think me one, if you 
like, but you will knoAv better by and by, and 
you will find there’s method in my madness. 

I tell you that as you value what you have in- 
trusted me with, you must hide nothing from 
me.” Seeing still some signs of irresolution in 
him, she stamped her foot impatiently, and said, 

“ I should not expect even Mr. Nathan to treat 
me as you are treating me, and there would be 
an excuse for him, while there’s none for you ; 
for he belongs to a stiff-necked race. You are 
a thousand times worse than he. I ask you 
again — can’t you trust a woman who loves you 
as I do ?” 

He was overcome by her torrent of words. 

“ You will have your way, I see. I yield.” 

“Now you are sensible again. Well, then, 
as you were saying — the young gentleman has 
been giving his father deep cause for anxiety 
lately. A love-affair, of course !” 

“ You are a witch, Margaret,” said Mr. Hun- 
ter, admiringly. 

“ You see, I know things without being told. 
Go on.” 

“ It seems, my dear, that young Gerald has 
entangled himself in some way ; that is to say, 
he has entertained some sort of a fancy for a 
young girl far below him in station — ” 

“Stop! Are these your words, or your 
friend’s ?” 

“My friend’s.” 

“I am glad to hear that. Some sort of a 


69 

fancy, indeed, for a girl below him in station ? 
Oh, if I — But go on, go on !” 

“ — And in every way unworthy of our Ger- 
ald—” 

“ His words again?” 

“His words again.” 

“Wait a moment— let me get my breath.” 

Margaret, indeed, required time to cool her- 
self. Had Mr. Weston witnessed her condi- 
tion, he would have said, “ This young person 
I thought so charming has certainly an ungov- 
ernable temper.” She turned presently to Mr. 
Hunter, and bade him proceed. 

“But, fortunately,” continued Mr. Hunter, 
much perplexed by Margaret’s proceedings, 
“ the little affair has come to an end by the 
sudden disappearance of the young lady.” 

“Indeed! The little affair has come to an 
end, has it? Pray did your friend mention 
the name of the young lady ?” 

“He doesn’t know it, Margaret. In conse- 
quence of some warm words used by his fa- 
ther, the young scapegrace wouldn’t disclose 
her name. They had a bit of a quarrel over it. 
‘Let me bring her to you,’ said young Gerald, 

• and you will see that she is goodness and mod- 
esty itself.’ The father flatly refused to see 
her. ‘In that case,’ said Gerald, ‘I will not 
even mention her name to you unless you con- 
sent to receive her here as your daughter.’ ” 

“Bravo, young Gerald,” cried Margaret, 
with nods of approval ; “ bravo ! I begin to 
like you. If you were here, I would throw my 
arms round your neck, and kiss you.” 

Mr. Hunter stared at her ; Margaret laugh- 
ed at him. 

“You think I am going out of my senses, I 
dare say. But your story isn’t finished yet.” 

“Yes, it is; the sudden disappearance of 
the young lady finishes it.” 

“ It isn’t finished, I say,” said Margaret, gay- 
Iv ; “ it is only the end of the first chapter, and 
is to be continued in our next. Shall I turn 
over the page ?” 

“Well, you are right, Margaret; it isn’t 
finished. There’s the other young lady to be 
brought into the story.” 

“ The other young lady !” exclaimed Marga- 
ret. “ Oh, the Don Juan !” 

“ You don’t understand. I mean the young 
lady the father intends Gerald to marry. A 
young lady of fortune, with great family influ- 
ence, and I don’t know what all. But putting 
her out of the question — ” 

“Put her out, by all means. I’ll see to 
that. A young lady of fortune, indeed!” 

“There is something still I have not told 
you. My old friend asked for my opinion as 
to whether he had acted rightly.” 

“Which opinion,” interrupted Margaret, ea- 
gerly and vivaciously, “you didn’t give.” 

“I did, in one way. He put it to me in 
this fashion : ‘ Gerald,’ he said, ‘ say that it 
was your daughter ’ — he was only putting a 
supposititious case, Margaret — ‘say that it was 
your daughter my boy had fallen in love with, 


70 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


or taken a fancy to, I am sure you would not 
allow her to receive his attentions against the 
wishes of his father ; I am sure you would not 
allow her to marry him unless he obtained his 
father’s consent.’ Well, Margaret, knowing 
that all my old friend’s hopes and aspirations 
are bound up in his boy, and knowing that my 
Lucy’s happiness was not involved in this im- 
aginary case (see how selfish we old fathers are, 
my dear!), I said that I certainly would not 
allow my daughter to marry his son without his 
consent.” 

Margaret threw up her arms in dismay. 
“You said that!” she cried. 

“ Yes, my dear. He rather pressed me for 
an answer, and I gave it in decided terms, to 
soothe him, for he was much agitated. What is 
the meaning of that expression in your face, 
Margaret? For Heaven’s sake, don’t torture 
me any longer with mystery ! ” He turned from 
her with quivering lips and moistened eyes as 
he made this appeal. 

“I don’t want to torture you,” exclaimed 
Margaret ; “ but I can’t help my face telling 
what is in my heart — that is, when I’m taken 
off my guard, as I am at this moment. Why, 
oh why, did you give that promise ? Why did 
I let you out of my sight ? No man is fit to be 
trusted alone — no man, no man ! If I hadn’t 
left my Philip’s side on that fatal night we 
should have been together to-day. My darling ! 
my darling!” Her tears began to flow here, 
but she checked them sternly, and said, “I 
mustn’t wander. I have something else to 
think of — something else to do. I have to re- 
pay you for all your goodness to me and him, 
and if a living woman can do it, I will. Cour- 
age, Margaret, courage! Set your wits to 
work, and prove yourself a match for the wily 
old worldling.” She paced to and fro in her 
excitement, and Mr. Hunter waited with gnaw- 
ing impatience for an explanation. She gave 
it him presently. “ Listen. This girl for whom 
your old friend’s son entertains some sort of a 
fancy — ” 

“Yes, yes, Margaret.” 

“And who is far below him in station, and 
in every way unworthy of him — ” 

“Yes, yes; goon.” 

“Is your daughter Lucy. Is our darling 
girl Lucy, whose heart has been very nearly 
broken because she feared her lover had de- 
serted her.” 


X. 

THE THEORY OF FRIENDSHIP. 

Margaret was not prepared for the manner 
in which her words were received by Mr. Hun- 
ter. She thought he would have been dismay- 
ed and staggered at the disclosure, and she was 
ready to comfort him, and instill courage into 
him. But the radiant face that met her eyes 
astonished her. 

“Why then,” cried Mr. Hunter, with bright 


looks and in a blithe tone, “ all is well— all is 
well. If your new A s is true — ” 

“ It is true,” she said, in calm wonderment ; 
“ they are together now. I came to the door to 
keep guard, so that no one should disturb them.” 

“ Then am I the happiest man and the hap- 
piest father in Christendom ! Why, Margaret, 
if I had been asked which man in all the wide 
world I should wish my daughter to marry, I 
should select the very man who has won her 
heart. God bless them ! God bless them ! 
Now, indeed, my mind is at rest, and I care 
not what happens to me. My business with 
the world is over. All is well with Lucy. We 
shall see the roses on her cheeks again, my 
dear— we shall, we shall ! Kiss me, Margaret, 
and wish me joy.” 

She kept him back with her hand, and in her 
eyes dwelt a look in which pity and admiration 
were equally blended. 

“It is my turn now,” she said, “to ask for 
an explanation.” 

“An explanation of what, my dear ? Is not 
every thing as clear as the noonday sun, as 
bright as this beautiful day ? Ah, it is a good 
world, a good world ! Thank God for it, and 
for the happiness this day has brought to me!” 

“It would be ungenerous to pretend to mis- 
understand you,” said Margaret, in a gentle 
tone. “ You think there are no difficulties in 
the way of Lucy’s union with Gerald.” 

“Think!” he exclaimed, in a reproachful 
tone. “Nay, am I not sure that matters 
could not have turned out more happily? Dif- 
ficulties, my dear child! What difficulties? 
Here are we, two old men, who pledged our 
faith to each other when we were young — who 
exchanged vows — who were and are the most 
faithful of friends — who, if circumstances had 
not parted us, would have walked hand in hand 
through life, cheering, consoling, encouraging 
each other. There is no envy in our friend- 
ship, and no selfish feeling mars it. How oft- 
en in my wanderings have I thought of him ! 
How often have I lived the old days over again, 
and recalled the memories of the happy times 
we spent together! Margaret, I think that 
even love pales before the beauty of a faithful 
friendship. There is something holy in it ; it 
is a pure sentiment fit for the hearts of angels. 
You can not conceive what comfort and conso- 
lation the mere memory of the friendship be- 
tween me and Richard Weston has brought to 
me ; it has brightened hours which otherwise 
would have been very dark. And now, when 
we are old men, and, after so long a parting, 
are so strangely reunited, our children fall in 
love with each other. One might almost say 
it is the reward of faithfulness.” 

So spoke this old man, whom the world’s 
trials and disappointments had been unable to 
sour. And Margaret felt humble^ and abash- 
ed as she listened to this noble outburst, and 
even as she listened she debated within herself 
whether she should plunge the dagger of doubt, 
into his heart. 


71 


AT THE SIGN OF T 

“We should change places,” she said ; “ you 
are younger than I. I am old, calculating, un- 
believing ; you are young and trustful. Ah, if 
men and women were all like you, how much 
better and happier the world would be ! Where 
you see cause for joy, I see cause for sorrow. 
Where you believe, I doubt. Your heart is 
like a bank of sweet moss where fresh flowers 
are always growing ; mine is a heart of flint. 
Dear friend, I love you more every day that I 
know you.” 

“Pleasant words to hear, dear child, but you 
shall not do yourself an injustice. I will not 
have you speak in such terms of yourself. You 
must work yourself out of this sad humor, for 
my sake, for Lucy’s sake. Believe me there is 
sweetness in life for you yet, notwithstanding 
your great sorrow. All is clear sailing before 
us now. Lucy and Gerald will marry. You 
will go to The Silver Flagon, and take your 
proper place as Mr. Rowe’s daughter, and we 
shall all live pleasantly together.” 

“How happy I should be if things turned 
out in that way !” exclaimed Margaret, having 
now resolved upon her course of action. “ But 
in the mean time you will not take the helm 
out of my hands. I am still captain, and I’ll 
have no mutineering. So I give you this or- 
der. Not a word of what we have said must 
pass your lips, nor must you speak upon this 
subject to any person but me for at least a fort- 
night from this day.” 

“ But why, my dear, why ?” 

“ I will not be questioned ; I want to make 
sure ; the stake is a serious one, and we must 
not run the risk of losing by acting rashly. 
Least of all must you whisper a word to old 
Mr. Weston.” 

“ You mistrust him, Margaret ; I can see that 
clearly ; but you are mistaken in him.” 

“ I fervently hope I may be. At all events, 

I have made up my mind that I will be obeyed 
in this matter. Let things work their way nat- 
urally.” 

“But if Gerald or his father speaks to me 
about Lucy ?” 

“That will alter the case entirely; then you 
will act according to your judgment.” 

It required, however, a great deal of coax- 
ing from Margaret before Mr. Hunter would 
agree to her stipulation. But in the end she 
had her way, as most women have when they 
are resolved upon it. 

Later in the day, Margaret said to Mr. Wes- 
ton, “ You do not know, I suppose, that we met 
an old friend almost on the first day of our ar- 
rival in Plymouth ?” 

“No,” he replied, “I have not heard of it.” 

“We did; and Mr. Hunter has business 
with him every night for two or three weeks, 
which will deprive us of his society from sev- 
en o’clock every evening. That is a pity, isn’t 
it?” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Weston, “but your pres- 
ence will be some compensation.” 

“ That is a very gallant speech. Upon my 


-E SILVER FLAGON. 

word, I think only old gentlemen know how to 
pay a graceful compliment to a lady.” 

In this way she tickled Mr. Weston’s vanity 
and contrived to account for Mr. Hunter’s ab- 
sence during the night without disclosing the 
cause. Margaret, indeed, was in her element, 
and every moment of her time was busily oc- 
cupied, now in wheedling Mr. Weston, now in 
screening the proceedings of Lucy and Gerald 
from the old gentleman’s observation. “I am 
the watch-dog,” she said to herself. She wait- 
ed for a fitting opportunity to speak to Gerald 
privately about Lucy, and also concerning an- 
other matter : the letter which poor Philip had 
given into the charge of Mr. Hunter, and which 
she had requested him to give her. 

An hour with Gerald had made a wonder- 
ful change in Lucy ; all her sadness was gone, 
and the joy of her heart was reflected in her 
face. She introduced Gerald to Margaret, and 
said, 

“You must love her, Gerald. She is my 
dearest friend.” 

“Do you hear, sir?” cried Margaret, merri- 
ly; “you are to love me.” 

“It will not be difficult to do that,” he re- 
plied, “ after what Lucy has told me about you. 
But how wonderful all this is ! I have not yet 
recovered from my astonishment.” 

“Lucy,” said Margaret, “will you spare 
Gerald for half an hour? I have something 
very particular to say to him.” 

Lucy smiled an assent, and Margaret taking 
Gerald’s arm, bade him lead her somewhere 
where they could flirt undisturbed. He led 
her to a retired part of the gardens. 

“No one will disturb us here,” he said, won- 
dering what this strange young lady could have 
to say to him. If he had entertained any idea 
that she W'as serious in asking him to flirt with 
her, he was soon undeceived. They were no 
sooner alone than all her light manner vanish- 
ed, and a sad expression came into her face. 

“I am going to confide a secret to you,” she 
said; “I may, with confidence, may I not? 
What I say to you now you will not speak of 
without my permission ?” 

“Certainly not, if you wish it,” he replied, 
wondering more and more. 

She paused for a moment, to master the 
emotion she experienced at the very thought 
of Philip, of whom she was about to speak. 

“Don’t think my questions strange,” she 
said: “you will soon understand them. You 
have been to college ?” 

“Yes.” 

“At Cambridge ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You had friends there?” 

“Yes.” * 

“Among those friends was there one who 
left suddenly — ” 

He caught her hand. “Of whom do you 
speak ? I had a friend who went from us sud- 
denly — a friend whom I loved more than all the 
others.” 


72 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


“ Oh, my heart ! Nay, do not mind me. 
Speak his name.” 

“Philip Rowe — Good heavens! what have 
I said?” 

He caught her sinking form, and, amidst her 
tears and grief at the sound of that beloved 
name, she kept fast hold of Gerald’s hand, fear- 
ful that he might leave her and call for assist- 
ance. 

“ I shall be better presently. Ah, Philip, 
my darling ! lie was my husband, Gerald, and 
often spoke of you with love and affection.” 
She could not proceed for her tears. 

“ Was your husband!” he echoed. 

“He is dead -T- my darling, your friend, is 
dead ! Keep close to me ; I shall soon be 
well. And you loved him more than all the 
others! Bless you for saying it! But who 
could help loving that noble heart? I will 
tell you all by and by ; these words between us 
are in sacred confidence until I unseal your 
lips.” 

They were both too affected to speak for 
several minutes, and then Margaret placed in 
Gerald’s hands the letter which Philip had giv- 
en into Mr. Hunter’s charge. He opened it in 
her presence. Hungering to see her Philip’s 
writing, she looked over his shoulder. There 
was no writing inside ; Gerald drew out a pack- 
et of bank-notes, which he held in his hand 
with a bewildered air. They looked at each 
other for an explanation. 

“Nay, it is you that must unriddle it,” 
said Margaret. He counted the notes; they 
amounted to a large sum, four hundred pounds. 
Margaret saw, by a sudden flash in Gerald’s 
eyes, that he could explain the mystery. Af- 
ter much persuasion he told her briefly that 
when he and Philip were at college together 
he had signed bills for Philip for four hundred 
pounds, which he had to pay. 

“My Philip repays you now,” said Margaret, 
in a grateful tone. “And yet when I spoke of 
him you used no word of reproach toward him ; 
others to whom he might have owed the money 
would not have been so forbearing.” 

“He was my friend,” said Gerald, “and I 
loved him. Poor dear Philip !” She took his 
hand and kissed it ; then she thought of Lucy. 

“And now I want to speak to you about 
Lucy,” she said. “If your father knew that 
it was the daughter of his oldest friend you 
loved, would he give his consent to your en- 
gagement ?” 

The words in which he answered her were 
a sufficient confirmation of her fears. “ I can 
marry without my father’s consent.” 

The voice of Mr. Weston himself, who had 
approached them unseen, suddenly broke up 
their conference. “Don't lose your heart to 
him,” said the old gentleman to Margaret ; “ he 
hasn’t one to give you in return. See how the 
rascal blushes !” 

“ I was making love to him,” said Margaret, 
archly ; “ but as you tell me it is of no use, I 
had better employ my time more profitably.” 


And she took the old gentleman’s arm, and 
straightway commenced to flirt with him in the 
most outrageous manner. 


XI. 

a peep into Bluebeard’s room. 

Thanks to Margaret’s tact, every thing went 
on smoothly for a little while. No person but 
herself knew how hard she worked during this 
time. She was forever on the alert, and she 
managed so skillfully that Mr. Weston did not 
even suspect that Gerald and Lucy were lovers. 
These young persons would have betrayed them- 
selves a dozen times a day to Gerald’s father 
had it not been for Margaret’s vigilance : she 
took the old gentleman in hand, as she termed 
it, and entertained him so admirably that he 
found real pleasure in her society. She after- 
ward declared that she had never played so dif- 
ficult a part, and had never played any part 
half so well. But Margaret, as we know, had 
a great idea of her own capacities. 

With womanly tact and cunning, she sound- 
ed the old gentleman to the very bottom of his 
nature, and she was compelled to admit to her- 
self that there was not the slightest probabili- 
ty of his ever voluntarily giving his consent to 
Gerald’s union with a girl who had neither 
wealth nor position. He had set his mind 
upon a certain worldly position for his son, 
and he was not to be diverted from it by senti- 
mental feeling. Gerald was to marry money, 
was to enter Parliament, and to make a name 
in society. The old gentleman respected noth- 
ing but position ; he felt a glow of pride when 
people touched their hats to him in the streets, 
and without a suspicion that this mark of out- 
ward respect was paid to his wealth and not 
to himself, he was convinced that it was worth 
living for and worth working for. But not- 
withstanding that he was emphatically a purse- 
proud man, and that when he sat upon the 
bench as a magistrate his bosom swelled with 
false pride, he had one estimable quality which 
better men than he often do not possess. He 
was a man of his word, and had never been 
known to depart from it. What he pledged 
himself to, he performed. His promise was 
better than another man’s bond. Now this 
would cut both ways, as Margaret knew, and 
it was with dismay she thought that if the old 
gentleman once refused in plain words to sanc- 
tion an engagement between Gerald and Lucy, 
it would take a greater power than she imag- 
ined she .could ever possess to induce him to 
revoke his decision. If, on the other hand, 
she could manage, insidiously or by straight- 
forward dealing, to induce him to sanction such 
an engagement, she believed she could compel 
him to stand by his word. But she saw no 
way to arrive at so desirable a consummation. 

Every day she confessed to herself that he? 
task was becoming more difficult. The fort- 


73 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVEK FLAGON. 


night during which she had exacted a promise 
from Lucy’s father to keep his lips sealed was 
fast drawing to a close, and no one but her- 
self knew that a storm was approaching which 
would bring a deathless grief to those she loved. 
She knew that she could obtain no assistance, 
even in the shape of advice, from any of the 
friends around her. Mr. Hunter was too trust- 
ful of his friend ; he would listen to nothing 
against him. Lucy was too simple; Gerald 
was too rash and sanguine. These reflections 
were perplexing her as she stood before the 
glass one morning, and when she came to the 
end of them she frowned and stamped her foot. 
“The fact is, my dear,” she said, nodding her 
head violently to herself in the glass, “all these 
people are too guileless and innocent to be of the 
slightest use to you. You are the only wicked 
one among them.” And then she thought she 
would go and consult her mother’s old lover, 
Mr. Lewis Nathan, the clothes- seller. But 
she was frightened to leave the house, with 
Mr. Weston in it, and no watch-dog over him. 
Fortune befriended her, however, for over the 
breakfast-table Mr. Weston mentioned that bus- 
iness would take him away from them until the 
evening. Margaret’s eyes sparkled. 

“We shall be quite dull without you,” she 
said. 

She had so ingratiated herself into the old 
gentleman’s good graces that he really believed 
her, and he gravely answered that he would be 
sure to be back by a certain hour. Little did 
he suspect that he was nursing a serpent in his 
bosom. Margaret saw him safely off, and then, 
telling Lucy that she had business in town, put 
on her bonnet and shawl. 

“What business, Maggy?” asked Lucy. 

“I am going shopping,” replied Margaret, 
with a face of most unblushing innocence. 

“ Oh, I’ll come with you,” cried Lucy, ea- 
gerly. 

(I take the opportunity of parenthetically 
stating my belief that women like “shopping” 
even better than love-making.) 

“I don’t w'ant you, my pet,” said Margaret, 
demurely ; “I am going to meet my beau, and 
two is company, you know.” 

Away she posted to Mr. Lewis Nathan, who 
welcomed her right gladly. 

“ I was afraid I was going to lose you, my 
dear,” he said. “ I thought you had forgotten 
me.” 

“I never forget a friend,” replied Margaret ; 
“lam like my poor mother, Mr. Nathan. Did 
she ever forget you ?” 

She chattered about odd things for a few 
minutes before she came to the point. She 
even took a customer out of Mr. Nathan’s 
hands, and sold the man a coat and a waistcoat 
for half as much again as Mr. Nathan would 
have obtained for them ; true, she sweetened 
the articles with smiles and flattering words, 
and sent the customer away, dazed and en- 
tranced. Mr. Nathan looked on with undis- 
guised admiration. 1 


“What a saleswoman you would have made!” 
he exclaimed, raising his hands. “ You talked 
to the man as though you had been born in the 
business, my dear — born in the business !” 

“The fact is, Mr. Nathan,” said Margaret, 
with brazen -audacity, “I am a very clever 
woman ; and besides, I am an actress, and 
know how to wheedle the men.” She sighed 
pensively, and added, “But I am a fool with it 
all. I can sell a coat, but I can’t serve my 
dearest friends. Oh, that I were a man, and 
had the brains of a man !” 

With a humorous look Mr. Lewis Nathan 
placed his hands to his head. “Here is a 
man’s head,” said he, “and a man’s brains, 
very much at your service, my dear.” 

“ Come along, then,” she cried. “ It is hard 
if you and I can’t win when we go into partner- 
ship. What do you say, now ? Shall we be- 
come partners ?” 

“My dear,” said the old rascal, “I should 
like to take you as a partner for life.” 

“It is a good job for me,” said Margaret, 
archly, “ that you are not thirty years younger. 
As it is, I have almost lost my heart to you.” 

This incorrigible creature could no more help 
flirting than she could help talking — and she 
had a woman’s tongue to. do the latter. 

Binding him over to secrecy, she told him 
the whole story ; he listened attentively. 

“As I was doing my hair this morning,” 
said Margaret, in conclusion, “and looking 
into the glass — ” 

“I should like to have been behind you, my 
dear,” interrupted Mr. Nathan. 

“Be quiet, Lothario ! As I looked into the 
glass this morning I said to myself, ‘ Margaret, 
there’s only one person among your acquaint- 
ance who is clever enough to assist you ; that 
•person is Mr. Nathan.’ But before I flew to 
you, I had a good look at the crow’s feet which 
this trouble is bringing into my eyes. I am 
growing quite careworn.” 

“I should like to see those crow’s feet.” 

“Well, look at them;” and she placed her 
face close to his. 

Mr. Nathan gazed into her sparkling eyes, 
which flashed their brightest glances at him, 
and then laughed at her outright. 

“You’re a barbarian,” cried Margaret. 

“ You had better call me an unbelieving Jew 
at once,” said Mr. Nathan, rubbing his hands. 
“You’re thrown away as a Christian, my dear, 
completely thrown away. You ought to have 
been one of the chosen people.” 

She rose, and made him a mocking courtesy. 
“Thank you, I am quite contented as I am. 
But let us be serious. Say something to the 
point. You have heard the story.” 

“It is an old story,” he observed; “love 
against money. Here is money ; here is love.” 
He held out his two hands to represent a pair 
of scales, one hand raised considerably above 
the other. “ See, my dear, how money weighs 
down love.” 

“I see. Your hand with love in it is near- 


74 


AT THE SIGN OF TI 

est to heaven ; your hand with money in it is 
nearest to — the other place.” 

“Perhaps so; perhaps so; but the plot of 
this play is to be played out on earth, my dear, 
isn’t it ? I have seen it a hundred times on the 
stage, and so have you.” 

“And love always wins,” she said, vivacious- 
ly. 

“Yes,” rejoined Mr. Nathan, dryly, “ on the 
stage, always. Never in real life.” 

“I won’t have never?” she cried, impetu- 
ouslv. “It does sometimes win, even in this 
sordid world. And if it never has done so be- 
fore, it must win now. Why, if your cunning 
and my wit are not a match for a greedy, 
worldly, hard-hearted old man, I would as lief 
have been born without brains as with them.” 

“ Hush, hush, my dear. Let me think a 
bit.” 

He pondered for a little while. 

“There was a mathematician — what was his 
name? — ah, Archimedes — who said he would 
move the world if he could find a crevice for 
his lever. My dear, we have neither lever nor 
crevice. We must get the lever first. Now, 
where does this old gentleman keep hi§ skele- 
ton ?” 

She stared at him in •amazement. “ His 
skeleton!” she exclaimed. 

“His skeleton, my dear; that’s what we 
want. He keeps it somewhere. I’ve got mine, 
and I keep it where no eye but my own can see 
it. We’ve all got one. If we could get hold 
of this old gentleman’s, we might do something. 
It is in his house, depend upon it.” 

“ If he has, I’ve not heard of it. Oh, 
yes,” she cried excitedly, contradicting herself; 
“Bluebeard’s room! He has a Bluebeard’s 
room in the house. Mr. Hunter told me of it.” 

Mr. Nathan chuckled. “What is in that 
room, Margaret?” 

“How should I know? I have never been 
in it.” 

He gave her a reproachful look. “If you 
hadn’t told me so yourself I should not have 
believed it. A Bluebeard’s room in the house, 
and you’ve never seen it! A clever woman 
like you ! You’ll tell me next, I shouldn’t won- 
der, that you have never peeped through the 
keyhole.” 

“I do tell you so; I never have peeped 
through the keyhole.” 

It was evident from Mr. Nathan’s tone that 
Margaret had fallen several degrees in his esti- 
mation. “ My dear,” he said, “ that room may 
contain the very thing we want — the lever.” 

“But suppose he keeps it locked up?” 

“Then locks, bolts, and bars must fly asun- 
der.” Mr. Nathan sang these words in a fine 
bass voice, and rising with a brisk air said, 
“ You must get me into that room, Margaret.” 

“ I must first get you into the house.” 

“ I am coming with you now. The old gen- 
tleman is away, you say ; no time like the pres- 
ent. We’ll strike the iron while it’s hot, my 
dear. I constitute myself your friend Gerald’s 


E SILVER FLAGON. 

tailor, and I am going to take his measure. 
As you have never peeped through the keyhole, 

I suppose you have never tried the handle of 
the door?” 

“ Never.” 

‘ ‘ I will take long odds it is unlocked. Come 
along, my dear.” 

At another time Margaret might have had 
scruples, but her interest in the stake she was 
playing for was so great that she was deter- 
mined to leave no stone unturned to win the 
day. So she accompanied Mr. Nathan to Mr. 
Weston’s house, where they found only Lucy — 
Gerald, for a wonder, being absent from her. 
Acting under Mr. Nathan’s instructions, Mar- 
garet got rid of Lucy, so that the two conspira- 
tors might be said to have had the house to 
themselves. 

“Now, my dear,” said Mr. Nathan, “take 
me to the room. Of course you know where it 
is.” 

“Not for a certainty,” replied Margaret, 

“ but I suspect.” 

She led Mr. Nathan to a door at the end of 
a passage, the last room but one in which was 
Mr. Weston's study. She tried the handle of 
the door, and it turned within her hand ; the 
door was unlocked. 

“I told you so,” said Mr. Nathan, with a 
quiet chuckle. “Sister Ann, Sister Ann, do 
you see any one coming ?” 

“I am frightened to go in,” said Margaret, 
shrinking back. 

“Nonsense, my dear, nonsense; we sha’n’t 
have our heads bitten off.” 

She followed him into the room, but saw 
nothing to alarm her. There was but little 
furniture ; two chairs, a table, and a desk, all 
in a very dusty condition. The windows had 
not been cleaned for some time, and it was evi- 
dent that no use was made of the room. Mr. 
Nathan opened a cupboard — it -was empty; 
tried a desk — it was locked. If it was a Blue- 
beard’s room, and contained a secret, it was 
well hidden ; the only thing to excite comment 
was that a number of pictures were hanging 
with their faces turned to the wall. 

“To preserve them from the dust, I should 
say,” observed Mr. Nathan ; “one — two — three 
— thirteen of ’em, my dear. We’ll have a peep 
at them at all events.” 

They were all portraits, and were all painted 
by the same hand. Mr. Nathan seemed to find 
some cause for curiosity in this circumstance. 
One of the portraits, Margaret said, was like 
Mr. Weston when he was a young man. 

“ Taken thirty years ago, at least,” said Mr. 
Nathan, replacing the pictures in their original 
position. “ There is something in it, my dear. 
If the old gentleman has a secret, it lies in these 
pictures.” 

“ What is to be done now ?” asked Marga- 
ret, in despair. 

“Well, my dear, it’s a puzzle. But we’ll 
try and work it out. We must put our heads 
together, and use stratagem. Don’t be down- 


AT THE SIGN OF T] 

cast; nothing is done without courage. We 
won’t be beaten if we can help it. Come and 
see me to-morrow, and in the mean time get 
at the story of these pictures if you can. I 
dare say the old gentleman has told Mr. Hun- 
ter something about them.” 

They left Bluebeard’s room in a not very 
hopeful frame of mind. 


XII. 

MR. HUNTER DECLARES THAT HONESTY HAS 
DIED OUT OF THE WORLD. 

Events, however, were brought to a climax 
somewhat suddenly, without Margaret’s inter- 
vention. On the day following the peep into 
Bluebeard’s room, Mr. Weston announced that 
he intended giving an evening party, and that 
he had already invited his friends. The party 
would take the form of an early dance. 

“Really early,” said Mr. Weston, “for I 
don’t like late hours. They have all prom- 
ised to be here by half-past eight o’clock.” 

He told Gerald privately that Miss Forester 
and her family would be among the guests. 
Miss Forester was the young lady whom he 
had fixed upon for his son, and he requested 
Gerald to pay her particular attention. The 
young fellow listened in silence. 

“ You will not leave us on this evening,” said 
Mr. Weston to Mr. Hunter. 

But Mr. Hunter was compelled to go to the 
theatre. It happened, however, that he had 
but a small part to play, and that he could at- 
tend the ' party by ten o’clock. Mr. Weston 
was very curious to know the nature of the 
business that took his friend away every even- 
ing, and Mr. Hunter had a difficulty in parry- 
ing the questions. 

Margaret knew beforehand that some great 
magnates of the county would be present, with 
their wives and daughters, and she determined 
that Lucy should not be eclipsed by any she in 
Devonshire. She dressed Lucy with exquisite 
taste, and no fairer flower was ever seen. Lucy 
had improved wonderfully during the past fort- 
night ; love had brought the roses to her cheeks. 
It was strange that the affectionate bearing of 
the young lovers toward each other should hith- 
erto have escaped Mr. Weston’s notice ; but 
this was partly owing to the fact of the old 
gentleman being exceedingly short-sighted. 
On many occasions, when Lucy and Gerald 
were together in the grounds, he perhaps with 
his arm round her waist, Mr. Weston, seeing 
them from a distance, had said, “ That must 
be Lucy and Gerald;” and when he fussed 
about for his glasses, and prepared to fix them 
on his nose, Margaret, who was invariably by 
his side, turned his attention adroitly, blessing 
the circumstance that he could not see a dozen 
yards before him. I am afraid that she had 
been guilty more than once of secreting his 
glasses, to the old gentleman's infinite annoy- 


IE SILVER FLAGON. 

ance ; she did not mind his pettishness ; as you 
know, she was thoroughly unscrupulous. Once, 
when Lucy and Gerald were within twenty 
yards of them in the garden, suspiciously close 
together, Margaret unblushingly took Mr. Wes- 
ton’s glasses — which he was rubbing with his 
bandana preparatory to putting them to use — 
from his hand, and the ribbon from his neck, 
and saying, “ Really, now, can one see with 
these things?” fixed them on her own nose, 
and looked about her like an old grandmother, 
making so pretty a picture that the old gentle- 
man was absorbed in admiration ; during which 
little piece of comedy Lucy and Gerald es- 
caped. At other times, Margaret twitted him 
with wearing his glasses constantly. 

“They make you look so old,” she expostu- 
lated. 

“ I cim old, my dear,” he replied. 

“You old! Nonsense! You’re a young 
man yet.” 

And although Mr. Weston deprecated the 
assertion, he was not displeased with it, and 
suffered much by frequently depriving himself 
of the artificial aids to sight. What he was 
ignorant of was clear to the eyes of every other 
person in the house. All the servants"talked 
of the love-making that was going on between 
Gerald and Lucy, and as the old gentleman 
seemed to sanction it, the servants decided that 
it would be a match. They thoroughly sym- 
pathized with their young master and their mis- 
tress that was to be, for Cupid was as busy in 
the kitchen as in the drawing-room. A most 
impartial young god. I have seen him busily 
at work, in rooms high and low, with fine ladies 
and common kitchen wenches, bestowing his at- 
tentions equally upon silk and cotton ; I have 
seen him where silk and cotton are not appre- 
ciated, at the other end of the world, walking 
saucily by the side of dusky savages in grand 
old woods. If I had the time I would write a 
chapter on this theme; it is a temptation, be- 
cause the subject is so new and novel ; but space 
will not permit of it. 

Mr. Weston, however, was not short-sighted 
on the evening of his party. The guests arrived, 
and the rooms were very brilliant. Lucy was 
the loveliest girl among them. Margaret came 
next, although she was dressed very simply in 
black. But she had the art of “ putting on 
things ” becomingly, an art which not all the 
members of her sex possess. Miss Forester was 
present, with her mamma, beautifully dressed, 
and very stately. Miss Forester’s mamma was 
aware of Mr. Weston’s wish, and approved of 
it. Gerald was in everyway a suitable match 
for her daughter, and she was prepared to be 
exceedingly gracious to the young gentleman. 
Not so Miss Forester; she had an attachment 
elsewhere of which her mamma was ignorant, 
and being a young lady of spirit and determi- 
nation, she had quite made up her mind that she 
would not mate with Gerald Weston. But she 
kept her sentiments to herself; she had no con- 
fidant, and desired none. So, when the music 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


struck up for the first dance, these little wheels 
were in full motion, and gradually and sure- 
ly worked a result unexpected to all. In the 
opening dance, Mr. Weston saw Gerald walk- 
ing to the set with Lucy on his arm. Now Mr. 
Weston had particularly wished Gerald to dance 
this first set with Miss Forester ; it would have 
looked significant. Mrs. Forester was also a 
close observer, and was disappointed by Gerald’s 
conduct. Miss Forester was perfectly satisfied 
with it. Gerald and Lucy, quite unconscious 
of the working of these small wheels, enjoyed 
the dance to its full ; they were in a heaven 
of delight, and the persons around them might 
have been so many dummies, they were so lost 
in their feelings for each other. Mr. Weston 
consoled himself by the reflection that Gerald 
might have deemed it proper to pay his first at- 
tentions to this lady-guest in his father’s house 
and the daughter of an old friend. He waited 
for the second dance. Gerald danced with Mar- 
garet. Mrs. Forester bit her lips, and calm agi- 
tation stirred her breast. This lady was never 
violent in her emotions. 

“Your father is watching us,” said Margaret 
to Gerald. 

Gerald made no reply ; he was dancing with 
Margaret, but his thoughts were with Lucy, and 
his eyes were upon her. Margaret repeated her 
observation. 

“Ah, yes,” he then said, detecting no mean- 
ing in it. 

“I think,” said our shrewd conspirator, “ that 
he would have preferred you to dance with Miss 
Forester.” 

“I prefer to dance with Lucy — and you.” 
The last two words were added as an after- 
thought. 

Margaret was not offended ; she was alarmed ; 
she did not like Mr. Weston’s looks* 

“You must ask Miss Forester to dance im- 
mediately,” she said to Gerald. 

Gerald obeyed her. He asked Miss Forester 
to dance. Miss Forester was engaged. Very 
contented, Gerald strolled away to Lucy, and 
the next moment the lovers were again in sen- 
timental labyrinths. Margaret understood the 
task of soothing and amusing Mr. Weston, and 
she succeeded for a time. Then she devoted 
herself, for a certain purpose, to Miss Forester ; 
she wished to discover the state of that young 
lady’s affections. But she met her match ; after 
a quarter of an hour’s confidential small-talk 
conversation, Margaret was no wiser than be- 
fore. At ten o’clock Mr. Hunter came, and for 
a little while Mr. Weston lost sight of his dis- 
turbance. But he planted a thorn in the breast 
of his friend. He introduced him to Miss For- 
ester, and said, a few minutes afterward, 

“ That is the young lady Gerald will marry.” 
Every trace of color left Mr. Hunter’s face. 
He turned to see how Lucy and Gerald were 
engaged. They were not together. Gerald 
was now dancing with Miss Forester ; their faces 
were very bright and animated ; indeed, to tell 
you a secret known only at this time to those 


two, they had come to a little private under- 
standing, arrived at without direct words, I as- 
sure you, which had given satisfaction to both. 
If words had been spoken, they would have run 
something in this way : 

Miss Forester. “I love another person, and, 
notwithstanding my mamma’s wishes, I shall 
not marry you.” 

Gerald. “I love another person, and, not- 
withstanding my father’s wishes, I shall not 
make love to you.” 

Not one word of this dialogue was spoken, 
but nothing could have been more plainly ex 
pressed. Thereupon Gerald and Miss Fores- 
ter immediately became greater friends than 
they had ever been, and were absolutely — in 
the judgment of outsiders— flirting together 
most conspicuously. In Mr. Hunter’s eyes it 
was not flirtation, it was love-making. But 
Lucy’s face was bright also ; there was not a 
cloud on it. He turned to Margaret; their 
eyes met, but he could not read the expression 
in her face. Truth to tell, she Avas anxious 
and nervous, and was beginning to lose confi- 
dence in herself. 

All this while we have left Mr. Weston, with 
the words hanging on his lips, 

“ That is the young lady Gerald will marry.” 

“Is it settled, then?” inquired Mr. Hunter, 
striving, and striving in vain, to master his ag- 
itation. 

“Quite settled,” replied Mr. Weston, with- 
out a twinge. 

Mr. Hunter was bewildered. Could Gerald 
have been playing his girl false? It looked 
like it. There was only one thing that would 
give the lie to this — the possibility that Marga- 
ret was mistaken when she declared Gerald and 
Lucy to be lovers. He groaned involuntarily 
as he thought that all evidence was against this 
possibility. He was awaking from a bitterly 
beautiful dream, a dream which had clothed his 
daughter’s life with happiness ; again was the 
future dark before him. Mr. Weston told the 
lie intentionally ; he had heard remarks during 
the evening upon the open attentions which Ger- 
ald was bestowing upon Lucy, and he did not 
choose that his old friend should remain in doubt 
of his opinion upon such proceedings. 

“When you and I were talking about my 
son’s prospects, I told you that he had entan- 
gled himself in some way with a girl far below 
him — you remember, Gerald.” 

“ I remember very well.” 

“That fancy is over, I am glad to say; he 
has evidently forgotten all about it. The fact 
is, my boy is impressionable, and can not resist 
a pretty face. Why, some people might fancy 
he was making love to Lucy; but I know him, 
I know him. It is his way. If he saw a new 
and pretty face to-morrow, he would begin ad- 
miring it immediately ; he couldn’t help it ; it 
is in his nature. He will cool down presently ; 
when he is married I shall indeed be a happy 
man. You will come to the wedding, Gerald 
| — you, and Lucy, and Margaret. Then we 


77 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER ELAGON. 


must get Lucy married. Do you know ’’—and 
here he peered, not without anxiety, into his 
friend’s face— “ that many another father would 
have been disturbed by what I have heard to- 
night. One or two foolish persons have said — 
you’ll not mind my repeating the words— that 
it looked as though Gerald were making love 
to Lucy. But we know better, eh, old friend ? 
we know better. He means nothing by it — ab- 
solutely nothing— and Lucy, of course, under- 
stands that. A girl easily sees, and instinctively 
judges between earnestness and lightness. And 
then I remember what you said when we were 
talking upon this matter; you would not allow 
your daughter to receive Gerald’s attentions 
without my consent ; you would not allow her 
to marry him without my consent. Those were 
the words, Gerald ?” 

“Those were my words,” said Mr. Hunter, 
coldly and mechanically. 

“And you never broke a promise — never, old 
friend ?” 

“Never.” 

“And you would not break this?” 

“ Not if it broke my heart,” replied Mr. Hun- 
ter, with a shudder of pain. 

“And my consent is given elsewhere,” pro- 
ceeded Mr. Weston, with nervous satisfaction, 
“given elsewhere, as I told you. As for your 
bright little Lucy — have you noticed how she 
has improved during the last fortnight, Ger- 
ald ? I really think the visit has done her good 
— as for her, we will get her comfortably set- 
tled presently ; and for yourself, Gerald, any 
thing in the way of money — ” 

“ For God’s sake,” cried Mr. Hunter, almost 
blind with grief, “don’t talk to me about mon- 
ey ! I must go and speak to Lucy.” 

He looked about for his darling, but he could 
not see her. Indeed, she had left the room 
with Gerald, and the two were now in the gar- 
den, little dreaming of the storm that was gath- 
ering. Mr. Weston was somewhat shaken by 
his friend’s agitation, but deemed it prudent 
not to comment upon it. A diversion occur- 
red, and Mr. Weston gladly seized the opportu- 
nity of changing the subject. A tall gentleman, 
very red in the face and very pompous in his 
manner, approached them. 

“Ah,” said Mr. Weston, “Mr. Majendie ! 
Delighted to see you. Let me introduce my 
friend, Mr. Hunter.” 

The gentlemen bowed to each other. 

“I intended to be here earlier,” said Mr. 
Majendie, “ but there was a benefit at the the- 
atre, and, as my patronage had been obtained, 

I thought the people would expect to see me.” 
“No doubt, no doubt,” observed Mr. Weston. 

“ The benefit was for the hospital, and I was 
compelled to put in an appearance. Not that 
I approve of such places, but one must make 
sacrifices.” Here he turned his attention to 
Mr. Hunter, and regarded him with a look of 
doubt and surprise. “ I beg your pardon ; I 
did not catch this gentleman’s name.” 

“Mr. Hunter — one of my oldest friends.” 


“ Hunter — Hunter ! Not Hart ?” 

He put this in the form of a question, and it 
had the effect of a cold shower-bath upon Mr. 
Hunter ; it dispelled all vapors for a time. 

“ What if it be Hart ?” he asked proudly, re- 
turning Mr. Majendie’s now steadfast gaze. 

A word as to Mr. Majendie. A bag of clothes 
stuffed with money. The richest man in the 
district, and the meanest* souled and narrowest- 
minded ; a man who wore frills to his shirts, 
and strutted along with his head in the air like 
a turkey-cock, and looked down with profound 
contempt upon the “ lower orders.” The pride 
of money oozed out of the corners of his eyes, 
out of his thick-lipped mouth, out of his voice, 
out of his manners. Policemen, parochial 
beadles, female paupers, and charity children 
regarded him with awe. Altogether he was 
one of the most contemptible embodiments of 
money among a crowd of such. 

“In that case,” replied Mr. Majendie, with 
his loftiest air, “ I should inquire if there was 
any connection between you and the Plymouth 
Theatre, and I should express my surprise at 
Mr. Weston asking my wife and daughters — 
leaving me out of the question — to meet a 
common actor on terms of equality.” 

“No, no, Mr. Majendie,” said Mr. Weston, 
very warmly, “I assure you you are wrong; 
you are mistaking my friend, Gerald Hunter — 
my old and dear friend, Mr. Majendie— for an- 
other person.” 

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Hunter, gently and 
proudly, and smiling sadly on Margaret, who, 
observing that something stirring was taking 
place, had hurried to his side, “ Mr. Majendie 
has made no mistake. If any has been made, 
it is I who am in fault. Your surmise is a cor- 
rect one, sir ; I am an actor, and am acting un- 
der the name of Hart at the Plymouth Theatre. 
But Mr. Weston was not aware of it until this 
moment.” 

Mr. Majendie turned on his heel, and in his 
most stately manner left the room with Mrs. 
and the Misses Majendie, who were all tainted 
with his disease. Mr. Weston was hurt in a very 
tender point ; truly, it was a most unpleasant 
incident. Only for one moment did Mr. Hun- 
ter look into Mr. Weston’s face: lie saw suffi- 
cient in that brief glance to shatter the hope 
and belief of a life. His friend was false to 
him, unworthy of him. In that moment, also, 
his own nature seemed to undergo a change. 

“ Where is Lucy ?” he asked, loudly and 
sternly, of Margaret. 

Margaret, without answering him, led him 
from the room, and he supposed she was about 
to lead him to his daughter. But Margaret’s 
first intention was to remove him from the ob- 
servation of the guests, who were already be- 
ginning to talk of the incident. That girl the 
daughter of an actor ! they said to one anoth- 
r. Well, it was no wonder she was so pretty ! 
'hey know how to make themselves up, my 
ear! As for Gerald Weston, his attentions 
) her were now easily to be understood. But 


78 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


they were astonished at old Mr. Weston intro- 
ducing such people. The girl and her friend 
had been living in the house for a fortnight ! 
Indeed ! And so on, and so on. 

Fortunately for them, and for Mr. Hunter 
also, he was out of hearing of this gossip. 
Margaret led him into the air, and the first 
persons they saw were Lucy and Gerald stroll- 
ing toward the house. Mr. Hunter’s mind was 
thrown off its balance by grief and passion. 
He tore Lucy from Gerald’s arm, and cried, 

“Gerald Weston, are you a coward or a vil- 
lain?” 

“Mr. Hunter!” exclaimed Gerald, confound- 
ed by this startling address. 

“Dear friend,” entreated Margaret, “be 
calm.” 


Lucy looked imploringly from one to the 
other. 

“No more fair words,” cried Mr. Hunter; 
“I have had enough of them! Honesty has 
died out of the world.” He turned to Mr. 
Weston, who, fearing a scene, had followed 
his old friend into the garden, and said, in a 
bitter, passionate tone, “ Never more will I hold 
out the hand of friendship to you, never more 
will I set foot beneath your roof, until you have 
atoned for the wrong you have done me and 
mine. Go you to your wife’s grave, and erase 
the words you have written on her tomb ; they 
are a mockery there, and rise up in judgment 
against you. Come, my child, this is no place 
for us. We must look elsewhere for truth and 
faithfulness!” 


PART THE THIRD. 

% 

THE DINNER OF THIRTEEN. 


I. 

STRANGE PREPARATIONS FOR THE DINNER. 

I N one of the very prettiest nooks in Dev- 
onshire, the garden of England, where the 
hedges and hill-slopes are filled with apple- 
trees, stands, where it has stood beyond the 
memory of living man, The Silver Flagon, an 
old-fashioned, delightful hotel, irregular in 
shape, as all pleasant hostelries should be, and 
so embellished with quaint turrets and gables 
and mullioned windows, as to make it appear 
more like the retreat of a wealthy gentleman 
than a house of public entertainment. The 
principal entrance stands fully thirty yards 
away from the public road or path, and to reach 
it you have to pass through an antique wooden 
gate and a carefully-tended garden, as delight- 
fully irregular as the house to which it is attach- 
ed. There is not a square room in the entire 
establishment, and although from time to time 
additions have been made to it in the shape of 
a wing here and a wing there, modern inno- 
vations and modern ideas of comfort have not 
been allowed to spoil its character. Imbedded 
in the midst of its own grounds, in the rich soil 
of which flowers and fruit-trees are abundant 
and beautifully luxuriant, The Silver Flagon is 
a standing reproach to those Tower of Babel 
hotels which it is the fashion now to build. 

Fortunately for those to whom it is known, 
and who enjoy and appreciate its comforts, its 
proprietor, Gideon Rowe, was, in his ideas, as 
old-fashioned as his hotel. The Silver Flagon 
had been in the family of the Rowes for many 
generations, and had been handed down from 
father to son for more than a century ; and the 
various members regarded it with so much pride 
and affection that it had grown to be looked 
upon more in the light of an heir-loom than a 
speculation. Gideon Rowe, at sixty-five years 
of age, was a pleasant, even-tempered, good- 
looking gentleman, straight as an arrow, with 
a clear eye and a wholesome color in his face 
— which he had caught, mayhap, from some of 
his famous apples — and with every probabili- 
ty of twenty more good years before him. lie 
was a man of independent property, and he 
carried on the business of The Silver Flagon 
as much for pleasure and occupation as for 
profit. It was probably for this reason that 
the majority of those who frequented it were 


gentlemen, who were fond of drinking their old 
ale and cider, and sometimes their wine, out 
of the old-fashioned silver flagons, which it was 
the whim of Gideon Rowe’s great grandfather 
to have made, and of which there were no few- 
er than one hundred and twenty in the hotel. 

It was seldom that any signs of bustle were 
to be noticed in The Silver Flagon ; but on a 
certain Wednesday in the middle of August — 
some few weeks after the occurrence of the in- 
cidents heretofore narrated — there were signs 
of unusual activity in the lower story of the 
hotel. The cooks were busy, and there was 
much hurrying to and fro ; it was evident that 
there was a larger number of attendants than 
usual in the hotel, and that something impor- 
tant was going on. The principal room of 
The Silver Flagon, which was in shape of an 
irregular oblong, and sufficiently commodious 
to accommodate a large number of guests, was 
situated on the ground-floor, and at six o’clock 
on the evening of this Wednesday in August 
presented an appearance which it is necessary 
to describe. The table was laid for a distin- 
guished dinner-party. That it was to be a 
dinner of the best kind was evident from the 
furnishing of the table, which comprised the 
finest plate of The Silver Flagon and a brill- 
iant display of glass. A number of attend- 
ants, dressed in court suits of black, with black 
knee-breeches and black -silk stockings, were 
perfecting the details, under the direction of 
their chief, before the arrival of the guests. 

Although it was still daylight the candles in 
the handsome candelabra were already lighted, 
the effect of which was not only to darken the 
room, but to throw corners almost completely 
into shade. Pictures hung upon the walls — 
not landscapes, nor scenes of rural or domes- 
tic life ; the subjects were neither historical 
nor allegorical ; every picture was a portrait. 
Counting them, you would find that there were, 
exactly thirteen portraits, all of the same size, 
and all handsomely and uniformly framed. 
That they were painted by one hand was not 
to be doubted, and being so, and being of a 
uniform size and uniformly framed, it might 
reasonably have been supposed that they rep- 
resented members of the same family ; but it 
was clear that this was not the case. With 
here and there an exception, they bore no like- 
ness to each other, and in some instances the 


80 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


contrast in the faces and general character of 
the individuals, as indicated by outlines and 
expression, was very remarkable. The origi- 
nals -were of various ages, from eighteen or 
nineteen to sixty mayhap. Casting your eyes 
around the walls, you would instinctively have 
paused at the picture of a stern-looking man, 
the lines in whose face spoke of invincible 
determination; his dress was pretentiously 
plain and sombre ; one hand, which grasped 
the back of a chair, grasped it so firmly that 
the veins were seen to stand out; his lips 
were set, and there was a frown in his eyes. 
Whether by accident or design, his picture was 
so hung as to cause his cruel eyes to bear di- 
rectly on two faces of a very opposite character 
from his. They were the portraits of a young 
lady and a young gentleman — she probably not 
more than nineteen years of age, he some three 
or four years older. The girl was in the full 
flush of youthful beauty, a rose whose leaves 
were opening to the sunlight of life, delicately- 
nurtured evidently, and whose face was almost 
spiritualized by its extreme sensitiveness. In 
this respect the young man, who was also hand- 
some and well- formed, singularly resembled 
her, and yet there was no likeness between 
them. These young persons were smiling on 
each other. Your eyes would also have dwelt 
with interest upon the portrait of a man about 
thirty years of age, with a kind and even be- 
nevolent face, fair, and with bright blue eyes. 
Then there was the portrait of one whom you 
would instantly set down as an old maid, from 
the precise and severely-demure fashion of her 
clothes, from the set of her poke-bonnet, and 
from the sharp but not ill-natured expression 
on her face. Next to her was a portrait of a 
very different character — that of a rakish, geni- 
al, full-blooded man, with the pleasantest of 
mouths, and the merriest of eyes, out of which 
joviality beamed ; his hat was set on one side 
of his head, and between his fingers dangled a 
cane with a dandy tassel. All these persons 
were attired in the fashion of a bygone genera- 
tion. 

The room was well supplied with choice flow- 
ers. Two folding windows which faced the west 
opened upon a veranda -terrace, the steps of 
which led into the gardens by which The Silver 
Flagon was surrounded. This terrace was also 
freely and beautifully decorated with flowers, 
and being comfortably furnished with easy and 
other chairs and convenient small tables, and 
a couple of fur rugs spread on the ground, form- 
ed the most luxurious and delicious after-din- 
ner lounge it is possible to imagine. 

Exactly as a quarter past six o’clock was pro- 
claimed in thin, silvery notes by the black-mar- 
ble clock on the sideboard, Gideon Rowe, the 
landlord and proprietor of The Silver Flagon, 
entered the room. He was in evening dress, 
and there was a natural dignity in his bear- 
ing which proclaimed him master. More than 
this, he was a gentleman. There was an air 
upon him which betokened the approach of an 


event of a grave nature. With attentive eyes 
— and yet with something of a sad abstraction 
in his manner — he examined the appointments 
of the room, and saw that every thing was in 
its place. With his eyes he made the circuit 
of the table, and counted the chairs which were 
placed for the guests. 

“ One — two — three — four — five — six — seven 
— eight — nine — ten — eleven — twelve — thir- 
teen.” 

Therefore it was clear that thirteen persons 
were expected to dine. Then he ran his eyes 
over the attendants, and counted them, from 
one to thirteen. One of these was the chief, 
and addressing him by the name of Steele, Gid- 
eon Rowe called him to his side. 

“ Your arrangements seem to be perfect, Mr. 
Steele.” 

“ I think you will find them so, sir,” replied 
Mr. Steele. 

“This is — let me see — the eighth year you 
have officiated.” 

“ This makes the eighth year, sir.” 

“ We have seen some changes, Mr. Steele.” 

“We have, sir.” 

“ I know I can depend upon you to carry 
out the affair with discretion, whatever hap- 
pens.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

There was the slightest tinge of surprise in 
Mr. Steele’s tone, which did not escape Mr. 
Rowe’s observation. Mr. Rowe made no re- 
mark upon it, however, but repeated : 

“ Whatever happens. After all, it is an ex- 
ceedingly simple affair, and I shall be glad to 
see every thing well and discreetly done. You 
have the entire superintendence. Even if I 
wished, I could not undertake the management, 
being, as it were, one of them.” This with a 
glance at the portraits on the wall. 

“ You will have no reason to complain, sir.” 

“The dinner will be served at seven precise- 
ly. There must be no mistake about that es- 
pecially. When the clock strikes we will com- 
mence.” 

“It shall be done, sir.” 

“ Have the men been instructed in their du- 
ties ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

But Mr. Rowe deemed it necessary to ad- 
dress a few words to them collectively. He 
called them together. 

“ Mr. Steele has explained to you what your 
duties are. You all of you understand them ?” 

“We do, sir.” 

“ There is something for you to understand 
more necessary than the mere detail of your 
duties, and that is the manner of their perform- 
ance. What is required of you is implicit si- 
lence and attention. At whatever occurs you 
will exhibit no wonder or astonishment, but 
you will steadily and decorously follow out the 
instructions given to you by Mr. Steele. It is 
a simple matter, but I wish to impress it strong- 
ly upon your minds. You understand me, I 
dare say.” 


81 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


“Yes, sir.” 

“ Then I need say nothing more to you.” 

Gideon Rowe did not consider that his man- 
ner of addressing the attendants, no less than 
his words, was sufficient to arouse within them 
a curiosity which they otherwise would not have 
felt. He turned his attention again to Mr. 
Steele, and asked about the wine. » Mr. Steele 
pointed to the iced pails, liberally supplied with 
bottles, and to other bottles which did not re- 
quire icing ; these were placed behind a screen 
at the extreme end of the room. There were, 
besides the folding windows which opened*on 
to the terrace and the gardens, three entrances 
to the room. One door, at the south end where 
the screen was, led to the kitchen and the ad- 
joining apartments where the dinner was being 
prepared ; another, at the north end, immedi- 
ately behind the chair at the head of the ta- 
ble, could be approached, on the outside, only 
by way of the veranda, so that any person who 
wished to enter by this door must of necessity 
pass the folding windows ; the third and last 
door opened on to the general passage of The 
Silver Flagon. This door Gideon Rowe lock- 
ed, putting the key into his pocket. As he did 
so, the silver tongue of the black-marble clock 
proclaimed half-past six. 

“Is the door-keeper here ?” asked Mr. Rowe. 

“ He is without, sir.” 

“Let me see him.” 

Mr. Steele hesitated a moment. 

“I have been disappointed in the man I 
wished to engage for this service.” 

“ But you have another ?” said Mr. Rowe, 
quickly. 

“Oh yes.” 

“And a dependable man?” 

“Quite dependable, to all appearance, and 
from his credentials.” 

“That is all that is necessary. His duties 
are onerous, but not burdensome. Let me see 
him.” 

Mr. Steele went out by the door behind the 
screen, and returned with an elderly man, dress- 
ed like the others. ■ His iron-gray hair was crop- 
ped close to his head, and there was a forced 
composure in his face, as though he had been 
schooling himself for his task. Gideon Rowe 
scrutinized him keenly. 

“Your name is — ” 

“Michael Lee.” 

“You answer promptly, like a soldier.” 

“ I am not one, sir.” 

“ You are an elderly man — about my own 
age, I should say. Is your eyesight good ?” 

“ Fairly good for my age.” 

“I ask because in the place where you will 
stand the light is rather dim. I must test you ?” 
He looked around for a newspaper or other 
printed matter, and finding none, drew a letter 
from his pocket. It was in a man’s writing, 
and a spasm came into his face as he gazed at 
it. He held it open at a little distance from 
Michael Lee. 

“ Is your eyesight good enough to read this ?” 

G 


Michael Lee changed color, and his lips trem- 
bled. 

“ You can not read it ?” 

“I can read it quite well,” replied Michael 
Lee, and continued, in a gentle, sad tone, read- 
ing from the letter: “ ‘ So now, my dear old 
dad, good-bye, and God bless you. With fond- 
est love, your affectionate scapegrace of a son, 
Philip Rowe.’ ” 

Gideon Rowe paused before he spoke again. 

“ That is a good credential for your eyes.” 

“The letter is from your. son,” observed 
Michael Lee, respectfully. 

“ Yes, from my poor boy. Written a long 
time ago. He is dead. Thank you for that 
mark of your sympathy.” 

“I also am a hither.” 

“ You can understand, then, the kind of grief 
that oppresses a man when he loses an only 
child, whom he loved very dearly. But w£ are 
wandering from the point. For the business 
before us, you are all the better for not being 
too young.” 

Michael Lee made an effort to shake off his 
sad humor, and answered, somewhat briskly, 
“ So that some good comes to one for being 
old. Though I should rather say that I should 
be all the better for being a little younger. I 
should have no objection to my ripening time 
coming over again. But time that ripens us, 
withers us ; time thg,t withers us, kills us.” 

“Ah, well,” said Gideon Rowe, with reflect- 
ive nods, and gazing in surprise at Michael 
Lee, “we must drop away, and make room for 
others.” He cast a strangely-serious look at 
the thirteen chairs arranged round the table. 
“ You are a superior man, I perceive.’' 

Still striving to rally his spirits, Michael Lee 
said, 

“ One other man besides yourself, sir, has 
sometimes thought so.” 

“Any one whom I know?” 

“Yes, sir; you know him slightly.” 

“Who may he be ?” 

“I, myself.” 

Gideon Rowe smiled. 

“Mr. Steele did well to select you. Now, 
pay careful heed to what I am about to say. 
Your duties to-night are not heavy. You are 
to stand as doorkeeper, and all you have to do 
is to act strictly in accordance with the instruc- 
tions I give you. Your position will be there ” 
— pointing to the door at the north end of the 
room, which led on to the verarida. “You 
will stand outside that door, and admit only 
those who establish their right to enter. And 
only those have the right of entrance whose 
names are written on this paper.” 

Michael Lee received the paper from Gideon 
Rowe, and read the names aloud : 

Reuben Thorne. 

James Blanchard. 

Henry Holmes. 

Rachel Holmes. 

Thomas Chatterton. 

Ephraim Goldberg. 


82 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


Dinah Dim. 

Stephen Viner. 

Caroline Miller. 

Edward Blair. 

Clarence Coven ey. 

Frederick Fairfax. 

Richard Weston. 

“You will keep the paper as a guide,” said 
Gideon Rowe, over whose countenance shades 
of varying expression had passed as the names 
were read, the most noticeable being one of sad 
pity at the name of Caroline Miller. “Not 
another person but those whose names are set 
down there must you allow to pass in, under 
any pretense. But you may still be liable to 
make a mistake, as you have jiever seen these 
ladies and. gentlemen. That contingency is 
provided for ; examine this.” 

He placed in the hands of Michael Lee a 
small piece of ivory in the shape of a heart. 
Michael Lee examined it with curiosity. Gid- 
eon Rowe continued : 

“You will neither admit nor announce any 
lady or gentleman who does not produce a heart 
shaped like this in ivory, with his or her name 
written upon it in red letters.” 

“ That is lucky,” observed Michael Lee. 

“What is lucky?” 

Michael Lee answered : “ My grandmother 
wore an ivory charm, with signs upon it, which 
was given to her by a gypsy woman ; she had a 
superstitious regard for it.” 

Gideon Rowe considered for a few moments 
whether Michael Lee’s words were intended to 
be taken in jest or earnest, but he could not re- 
solve the point. 

“Very well,” he said ; “ now you can go to 
your post. Here is a seat, you see. You may 
find your work somewhat dull, but you will con- 
trive not to fall asleep.” 

“When all the persons,” said Michael Lee, 
“ whose names are set down here have arrived, 
will it be necessary for me to keep to my post?” 

“No,” replied Gideon Rowe, with another 
strange look; “when all the persons whose 
names are on that paper have arrived, your du- 
ties are at an end.” 


II. 

ARRIVAL OF BUT ONE GUEST AT A DINNER FOR 
THIRTEEN. 

Leaving Michael Lee at his post outside the 
door, Gideon Rowe went to the folding win- 
dows, and drew the curtains over them. He 
lingered by the window to inhale the faint per- 
fume of lavender which the breeze brought into 
the room. 

“Summer is dying,” he murmured. 

Beautiful as was the evening, there was some- 
thing inexpressibly sad in the appearance of this 
room, with its dim light, and the black clothing 
of the attendants, who moved about like shad- 
ows. 


“Mr. Steele,” said Gideon Rowe, “ you un- 
derstand that the first guest who arrives will 
preside at the head of the table. I will wait 
upon him myself.” 

“As heretofore, sir.” 

“As heretofore.” 

All the arrangements being completed, the 
attendants stood in silence behind the chairs, 
forming a black hedge around the table. Gid- 
eon Rowe glanced anxiously at the clock. The 
hands indicated eighteen minutes to seven. 
That he was singularly and powerfully agitated 
was evident, but he controlled his excitement 
by a strong effort. Another minute passed 
and another. The clock struck three-quarters 
past six, steps were heard on the veranda, and 
almost immediately afterward Michael Lee 
opened the door by which he was stationed, 
and advancing a step, called out, 

“ Mr. Richard Weston.” 

The sound of Michael Lee’s voice afforded 
relief to every person in the room, for all were 
beginning to be oppressed by the gloom and si- 
lence which prevailed. Mr. Weston, as he en- 
tered, glanced before him with a shrinking air, 
and grasping Gideon Rowe’s hand firmly, as 
though he derived comfort from the contact, 
shaded his eyes with his left hand, and peered 
timidly at the attendants, whose faces he could 
not see in the uncertain light. 

“Only the servants,” observed Mr. Rowe, 
answering the look; “I am glad to welcome 
you.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Rowe, thank you,” said 
Mr. Weston. “ I am the first, then ?” 

“You are the first,” replied Mr. Rowe, 
gravely. 

“I am almost ashamed to confess it,” said 
Mr. Weston, “though I don’t know why I 
should be ashamed to confess it to you, for we 
are old cronies, eh, Rowe ? old cronies — but be- 
fore I entered the room, and indeed for many 
days past, I have had a fearful and unreason-, 
able fancy that, that — ” 

Gideon Rowe, with a serious smile, supplied 
the words which Mr. Weston was at a loss to 
utter. “That some one might have been be- 
fore you, and deprived you of your position at 
the head of the table.” 

“It was so, I assure you,” assented Mr. 
Weston ; “but I have been much upset lately — 
crossed and thwarted on all sides, and where I 
had the best right to expect obedience.” 

“I have heard something — rumor is manv- 
tongued, you know.” 

“ Yes, yes ; and tells lies, and invents, and 
makes black white. I can speak to you as an 
old friend. Tell me what you have heard.” 

“ It is an impertinence for people to speak 
of those things, for they are family matters ; 
and, indeed, it is difficult to bring vague rumors 
into definite words. Briefly as I understand it, 
Gerald—” 

“My son — yes.” 

— “ Refuses to marry the lady you have cho- 
sen for him, loving another lady and having 


83 


AT THE SIGN OF T1 

pledged himself to her. That much has reach- 
ed my understanding, through the rumors I 
have heard. Has Gerald really pledged him- 
self to a lady of whom you disapprove, and does 
he really love her ?” 

“ Love her ! No. It is a fancy which will 
be gone in a few weeks. The boy doesn’t know 
his own mind.” 

“ That is not the impression I have formed 
of Gerald. He is somewhat obstinate in his 
likes and dislikes. And he really has pledged 
himself to this lady, and she really is a lady ?” 

“ She is the daughter of an old friend of 
mine,” replied Mr. Weston, with nervous hesi- 
tation ; “ of an old friend who has inflicted 
great pain upon me. She is a. good girl — a 
good girl, I do believe — but not the wife for 
Gerald, not the wife for my boy.” 

“Why not? Because she is poor?” 

“Ah, you have heard, then. Can you not see 
that Gerald has a position to maintain, and 
there are duties which society exacts from us ? 
Classes must be kept apart. But do not speak 
any further of this now ; it is not the time. 
On the anniversary of this night my mind is 
occupied by but one subject.” He glanced at 
the table. “It seems but yesterday — it seems 
but yesterday ! The same old silver — the same 
old service — and some of the same old wine, 
eh, Mr. Rowe? the same old wine.” 

“ The same, Mr. Weston ; there is but little 
of it left. But it will last our time, and then 
will come new wine, new fashions, new men 
and women, neAV every thing, to grow old as we 
have grown old, and to make way for other 
fashions and other men and women, as our 
fashions and ourselves are making way for 
them.” 

“There are some things that do not seem to 
change,” said Mr. Weston, looking toward the 
clock, and feeling in his pockets. “The same 
old clock, too. But I can not see the hands. 
Ah, here they are !” He had been searching 
his pockets for his spectacles, and he now pro- 
duced the case. “Looking at my eyes now, 
you wouldn’t think that I am growing more 
short-sighted every day, eh, Mr. Rowe?” 

“ Your eyes are as bright as they were thirty 
years ago.” 

“ So they seem to me, but they deceive me, 
they deceive me — as every thing else. Bless 
my soul ! they are gone !” He referred to his 
spectacles ; his spectacle-case was empty. 

“Shall I send for them?” asked Gideon 
Rowe. 

“No, no; they would not be found, perhaps. 

I must do without my eyes to-night. The 
clock is right, eh ? What does it mark now ?” 

“Thirteen minutes to seven.” 

“ Thank you. As I was saying, there are 
some things that do not change. The Silver 
Flagon, for instance — there is no change in 
that.” 

“There is no change in it from my first 
remembrance of it. I should like it never to 
change. I used to wish that it might be car- 


[E SILVER FLAGON. 

ried on in exactly the same way, and in the 
same old fashion, as it has been carried on dur- 
ing this last hundred years. But it is in the na- 
ture of things to change, and my wish will not 
be fulfilled. Had other things turned out as I 
hoped, my desire would almost certainly have 
been frustrated by the new scheme for the 
branch railway that is being talked about. I 
am told that its course is designed immediately 
in the rear of the garden.” He looked regret- 
fully toward the folding windows, through the 
transparent curtains of which the sky could be 
seen reddening in the light of the declining 
sun. “ One might fancy one’s self almost out of 
the world here ; but if the railway scheme be 
carried out, good-bye to the charm of perfect 
peacefulness which rests upon The Silver Flag- 
on. Good-bye, perhaps, to The Silver Flagon 
itself. The thought hurts me, but not as much 
as it would have done had my dear boy been 
alive. ” 

“Rowe!” exclaimed Mr. Weston, in a sym- 
pathizing, wondering tone. “You have had 
news ofRhilip, then?” 

“He is dead, poor lad! You know how I 
loved the boy, and how my heart was bound up 
in him. I cherished the hope that, when his 
wild fit was over, he would come home and 
take my place here. The dear lad was work- 
ing to bring home a hatful of money, to repay 
me for what I had done for him. As though 
I needed repaying! Shame drove him away, 
and kept him away while he was poor. He 
did not know his father’s heart.” 

“How did the news come?” asked Mr. 
Weston, softly. 

“His wife brought it — a dear, good girl. 
She is in the house now, and will remain here 
as my daughter. You shall see her in good 
time, and hear the sad story from her own lips. 

I think the news would have killed me but for 
her.” 

“My Gerald and your Philip were good 
friends,” murmured Mr. Weston ; “ Gerald will 
grieve, indeed, when he hears the news.” 

“ Life is full of disappointment, full of 
changes. Man proposes, God disposes. I 
thought I should die with my Philip by my 
bedside in this peaceful spot, and he dies at 
the other end of the world, sixteen thousand 
miles away, while I am still a hale old man. I 
have the comfort of knowing that his heart was 
beating with love for me — the dear lad.” He 
paused for a moment. “ Notwithstanding this 
grief, I still have something to be grateful for, 
and I bow with submission to the Divine will. 

I have a new daughter, such a girl as I would 
have chosen for him, and mayhap a great bless- 
ing will be bestowed upon me in the course of 
a couple of months, and my Philip may live 
again in his son. And have I not still the dear 
old Silver Flagon ? I look upon it almost as 
part of my own flesh and blood. My life is 
wedded to it by sweet and solemn memories. 
Why, I remember these old flagons when I 
could scarcely toddle. I used to look at my 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


81 

face in them when I was a boy ; there was one 
with a long dent in it— here it is now on the 
sideboard — which seemed to split my face in 
two.” He gazed wistfully into its polished sur- 
face. “ It isn’t the same face as it was then.” 

“ What does the clock mark now ?” 

“Eight minutes to seven.” 

“How slowly the time passes 1 The mo- 
ments are clogged with lead.” 

“It is only the years that fly,” said Gideon 
Rowe. “ We watch the minutes and the days, 
and the years slip by without our heeding them. 
But all at once we wake to the fact, and a sud- 
den shock comes upon us. Truly we are such 
stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life 
is rounded with a sleep.” 

There was nothing singular in the perfect 
familiarity that existed between the speakers. 
Gideon Rowe came of an old family (though if 
he had come of a new family — a phrase I can 
not quite understand— it would have been all 
the same) who had acquired their money hon- 
estly, and he had lived a blameless life. Such 
a man is the equal of a king. It was to be 
especially noted that the present conversation 
was carried on with a careful avoidance — by 
Mr. Weston most certainly— of a subject which 
must have been uppermost in their minds, and 
that directly one paused, the other took up the 
cue, as though they were desirous that not a 
moment should pass in silence. Another thing 
to be noted was, that frequently in the middle 
of a sentence, Mr. Weston — whether he or his 
companion was speaking — turned his head over 
his shoulder toward the door by which Michael 
Lee was stationed, with a timid, nervous, fright- 
ened look, as if expecting to see an apparition 
there. Another thing to be noted was his 
studied avoidance of the pictures that were 
hanging on the walls. If in an unwitting mo- 
ment he happened to raise his eyes toward the 
portraits, he turned them hastily away again 
with visible agitation. The attendants in the 
room preserved implicit silence while their su- 
periors were conversing. They stood in their 
places like statues. 

“And we fret ourselves so unwisely,” con- 
’ tinued Mr. Rowe, with something of a wary 
look toward Mr. Weston ; “we torture ourselves 
so unnecessarily. Instead of enjoying the op- 
portunities which good fortune has placed in 
the hands of such fortunate ones as you and I, 
we bring unhappiness upon ourselves by setting 
our minds upon the accomplishment of certain 
wishes which we deem to be good, notwithstand- 
ing that they distinctly clash with the hopes of 
those who are dearest to us. We forget that 
life is short. Let me give you a bit of my 
philosophy, and apply it to ourselves. Here 
we stand, having grown from youth to man- 
hood, from manhood to old age — marching from 
our very cradles into our graves. The changes 
that come naturally upon us we bear, if we are 
wise, with patience and resignation ; with hope, 
also, that carries us in our lives to the contem- 
plation of other spheres beyond the grave. 


There is a wonderful amount of goodness and 
sweetness in life, with all its sad changes, if we 
will but see it. What best rewards us— what 
brings us the most pleasure and satisfaction — 
is to enjoy this good, in so far as it affects our- 
selves and others, and to make the very best 
use of it which lies in our power. You can not 
deny that this is a sensible philosophy.” 

“It sounds so.” 

“It is not only a sensible, it is a wise phi- 
losophy. Let me apply it. Say that I have a 
child whom I love ’’—the memory of his Philip 
brought a touching sadness into his tone “ say 
that this blessing, which I have unhappily lost, 
is mine. If by any action of mine I can make 
that child happy, it is surely good and wise in 
me to do so, and add to my enjoyment of life. 
Say that this child, having grown to manhood, . 
with a man’s intelligence and a man’s hopes, 
has set his heart upon a certain thing — say, 
plainly, that he loves a girl who is both virtuous 
and good, whom he wishes to make his wife, 
and that I make it my business to thwart him, 
it is surely unwise in itself, if only in the fact 
that it brings discomfort to me, that it fills my 
days with uneasiness, and makes my home un- 
happy. Now, this is a selfish view, but it is 
one which occurs to me by way of illustration.” 

“But say, for the sake of argument,” said 
Mr. Weston, somewhat uneasily, “only for the 
sake of argument, mind — ” 

“ Yery well; for the sake of argument.” 

“That this child’s fancy was a foolish one, 
and unwise in every sense.” 

“I don’t admit that ; but we are only argu- 
ing. Pray proceed.” 

“And that you, his father, saw another and 
a better way of bringing happiness into his 
life.” 

“Who judges that my way is the better 
way?” demanded Mr. Rowe. 

“Yourself.” # 

Mr. Rowe shook his head, and taking a pair 
of spectacles from his pocket, asked Mr. Wes- 
ton to use them. Mr. Weston put them on 
gladly, but they did not suit his sight ; all was 
dim before him. He returned the spectacles 
to Mr. Rowe. 

“ I can not see through them,” he said. 

“Nonsense, nonsense,” replied Mr. Rowe; 
“you are mistaken. You can.” 

“I tell you I can not.” 

“Yet that is just what you insist others can 
do. You insist that they can see through your 
spectacles.” 

“ I say, Nonsense, nonsense to you ; I under- 
stand your trick, but it does not apply in this 
case. I say that in the difference of opinion 
between you and your son which you have 
spoken of, you are the better judge. You are 
the older of the two by forty years. You know 
the world ; you have experienced its trials, its 
temptations, its disappointments ; you have seen 
its follies, its delusions. Therefore you have a 
perfect right to say to your son, ‘ My boy, you 
are wrong ; you must conquer your idea — your 


85 


AT THE SIGN OF TJ 

fancy. Be patient, and time will show you its 
folly ; and one day you will thank me for op- 
posing your wishes.’ Why,” exclaimed Mr. 
Weston, raising his voice slightly, in his excite- 
ment, “ do you not love your son ?” 

“That is not to be doubted.” 

“And what you do in this matter, is it not 
for his good?” 

“Ah, my friend, my friend ! I may think so, 
in my obstinacy, but it is I who am wrong. 
Let us speak plainly. You know it is of your 
Gerald we are speaking — ” 

“ Of course I know it.” 

“ What more can you desire than his happi- 
ness ? The girl he loves, and has pledged him- 
self to, is poor, it is true ; but she is a lady, and 
is in every way worthy of him. Why imbitter 
your life and his by standing in his way ?” 

“ One moment, Mr. Rowe,” interrupted Mr. 
Weston; “how do you know all this? Have 
you seen the girl ?” 

“I have.” 

“And her father, have you seen him?” 

“ No, but I hope soon to do so. From what 
I have heard, he is a man whom it would be a 
privilege to call friend.” 

Mr. Weston made a movement of uneasi- 
ness. “The subject pains me; let us cease 
discussing it.” 

“We have no time to continue it,” said Gid- 
eon Rowe, glancing at the clock, “or, despite 
your wish, I should not allow it to drop. We 
ourselves were young once, and looked at things 
with different eyes from those with which we 
view them now.” 

“ How near to the time is it ?” 

“But one minute.” 

During this minute there was silence in the 
room. Michael Lee’s voice was not heard. 
Mr. Weston moved slowly to the chair at the 
head of the table. The attendants stood in 
silence behind the empty chairs. The clock 
seemed to be the only thing in the room im- 
bued with life. Presently it struck the hour 
of seven. As the sound of the last stroke 
was dying away, Gideon Rowe said to Mr. 
Steele, 

“ Serve the dinner.” 

Mr. Richard Weston was the only guest. ' 


III. 

ARRIVAL OF UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 

Standing behind the twelve empty chairs, 
the attendants performed their duties with as 
much ceremony as could have been expected 
from them had they been waiting on the most 
exacting and punctilious guests ; but it was not 
difficult to see that they did not like the service 
in which they were engaged. From time to 
time they gazed furtively at each other, and 
according to the susceptibility of their temper- 
aments, were more or less disturbed by the 
strangeness of the scene. There was some- 


E SILVER FLAGON. 

thing so ghostlike in this silent dinner, that 
when the attendants moved they stepped light- 
ly, as though they were fearful of raising the 
dead. The only persons who were not dis- 
mayed at the sight of the empty chairs were 
Mr. Weston, Mr. Steele, and the proprietor of 
the Silver Flagon. Indeed, that the chairs 
were empty seemed to afford satisfaction to at 
least one of the party— Mr. Weston. 

“What has become of your unreasonable 
fancy ?” asked Mr. Rowe. 

“ Dissolved, thank God!” replied Mr. Wes- 
ton, with a sigh of relief, draining his glass. 
“But I had it very strong upon me. We can 
not help these superstitious feelings, and in my 
case there is a distinct cause for them, in words 
once uttered by Reuben Thorne.” 

“Pool* Reuben! He was the merriest soul 
I ever met.” 

“A careless, ne’er-do-well,” exclaimed Mr. 
Weston. 

“No man’s enemy but his own,” added Mr. 
Rowe, quickly. “ The merriest part of the ta- 
ble was always where he sat, during the few 
years he ivas with us. What words do vou 
refer to ?” 

“ It was on the fourth anniversary of this day, 
and eveiy one of us was present. Death had 
not taken one of our party. I was sitting next 
to Reuben, and the conversation was loud and 
jovial. All were in high spirits with the ex- 
ception of three — Caroline Miller, Edward 
Blair, and Stephen, Viner. If it were not our 
duty to speak gently of the dead, I could find 
it in my mind to couple the name of Stephen 
Viner with bitter words.” 

“You couple his memory with bitter thoughts. 
Why spare the words ? He was a cruel man, 
with an unfeeling heart.” 

“ Hush ! hush ! He has gone where he will 
be judged.” 

“And where,” said Mr. Rowe, in no way 
softened, “ the spirits of Caroline and Edward 
rise in judgment against him. I am glad you 
feel as I do toward the man who destroyed the 
happiness of two young persons whose only 
fault was that they loved each other too well.” 

“You have made me,” said Mr. Weston, with 
a heightened color, “wander from my theme.” 

. “You wandered from it yourself,” retorted 
Mr. Rowe, “ by mentioning the name of Ste- 
phen Viner.” 

“If it were not,” said Mr. Weston, with 
marks of agitation in his face, “ that we were 
old friends, I should think you had a design to 
irritate me.” 

“I have a design to speak plainly. If we 
can learn a lesson from the dead, why should 
we not do so? The parallel is a strange one. 
Caroline Miller and Edward Blair are not the 
only young lovers who have been parted—” 
“Stop, Rowe,” interrupted Mr. Weston, in 
a tone of suppressed passion. “ I desire that 
you do not continue the subject. It is unkind, 
cruel of you, and the conclusions you draw do 
me great injustice.” 


86 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


He again emptied his glass, and the next 
few moments were passed in silence. 

“I beg your pardon,” then said Mr. Rowe, 
more gently; “I was betrayed out of myself. 
You were speaking of Reuben Thorne.” 

“We were conversing loudly together,” con- 
tinued Mr. Weston, with visible effort : it was 
evident that silence was oppressive to him. 
“At the moment I was not speaking to Reu- 
ben Thorne, but to my neighbor on the other 
side. My attention, however, was called to 
Reuben by several voices crying, ‘What was 
that you said, Mr. Thorne — what was that you 
said?’ ‘I said,’ he replied, ‘that if I happen 
not to be myself the last survivor of this party 
— and I hope not to be, for the duty he will 
have to perform will be a dismal one — I prom- 
ise to visit him, whoever he may be, and drink 
wine with him once more. Will any others 
join me?’ Unthinkingly, some at the table 
responded, ‘ I will,’ and ‘I will!’ I raised my 
hand for silence. ‘There are some things,’ I 
said, ‘ which are too serious to jest upon ; this 
is one of them.’ But Reuben was not to be 
diverted from his light humor. ‘ I have prom- 
ised,’ he said ; and there was an end of the 
matter. Little did I think, when those words 
were exchanged,' that I should be the last sur- 
vivor, and that Reuben Thorne’s promise would 
make such an impression upon me.” 

Mr. Weston ate very little, but he drank a 
great deal of wine, and pushed his plate from 
him with nervous haste, wishful to bring the 
solid part of the dinner quickly to an end. 
There were many courses, however, and the 
serving and removing of them occupied some 
time. The colors of the sunset could be seen 
through the folds of the curtains which hung 
before the windows, changing from a clear rose- 
red, like the blush on the face of a fair woman, 
to the deeper glow which mantles the face of a 
brunette ; from that to purple, fringed by dark- 
est blue; thence by delicate and sadder tints, 
melting one in the other, into quieter shades, 
until the fiery sky grew calm, and heralded a 
lovely and peaceful night. As daylight disap- 
peared, more candles were lighted, and the 
room wbuld have presented a cheerful aspect 
but for the empty chairs and the serious faces 
of the attendants. Then, for the first time, 
Mr. Weston raised his eyes to the portraits 
which hung upon the walls. 

“Ah, me !” he sighed. “And this is all that 
remains of them — painted canvas ! I can not 
distinguish their faces without my spectacles, 
but I can see them in my mind’s eye. All 
dead, all dead, but I!” 

“ Few lived to our age,” remarked Mr. Rowe. 

“How many — how many? Let me see. 
One — two— three; no more— only three. You 
were right when you said ’tis only the years 
that fly. And some died very young ! Wheth- 
er was it for good or ill, Rowe, that we, strangers 
to one another, should have been brought to- 
gether by one unknown to all of us ?” 

“ It can scarcely have been for good,” replied 


Mr. Rowe. “Looking back, as we can look 
back, upon the lives of those to whom the mon- 
ey was left, to what one of all those who are 
dead can it be said to have brought happiness ? 
To some it brought a curse. Too well do we 
know the story of those two young hapless ones, 
Caroline and Edward, whom it drove to an ear- 
ly grave. Left to the absolute guardianship of 
a man whose heart was stone, these orphans 
met and J loved. According to all human cal- 
culation, no lot in life could be happier than the 
lot of these lovers would have been had they 
married. But to marry without Stephen Vi- 
ner’s consent entailed upon them, according to 
the provisions of the will, absolute beggary ; 
and this consent their guardian refused to give. 
He cast a strange spell upon his delicate, sus- 
ceptible ward. His strong mind and will domi- 
nated her sensitive nature absolutely. He won 
from her a solemn promise that she would not 
wed without his consent. Dinah Dim, that 
kindly old maid, told me that Viner made Caro- 
line swear this oath upon the Bible. Edward 
and Caroline were but boy and girl when they 
were first given into the guardianship of this 
man — what wonder that they loved as they 
grew to man’s and woman’s estate ? All of us 
knew of their love. We all interceded for 
them, vainly. Prayers, entreaties, remonstrance 
— all were useless. You yourself were one of 
the most earnest in your words to Stephen Yi- 
ner. He turned a deaf ear, and so arranged 
that the lovers were to be parted. Edward was 
to be sent to India, ‘ where he would get over 
his foolish passion,’ Stephen Yiner said. Of 
my own knowledge I am aware that Edward 
wanted Caroline to marry him and defy her 
guardian. But her oath, which she was never 
allowed to forget, was of too solemn a nature to 
permit of this ; and besides, she had a clear and 
painful remembrance of privations endured by 
her parents when she was a child, and knowing 
that they had married for love against the wish 
of their friends, she refused to bring a similar 
suffering as her dowry to Edward. You know 
the sad ending. Driven to despair, the young 
lovers drowned themselves — at least, so it was 
supposed, when their bodies were found in the 
river. You remember the gloom the news cast 
over our party when we met, and the savage 
looks and words which were cast at Stephen 
Viner. Who that is acquainted with this sad 
story can doubt that the money left so strange- 
ly brought a curse to these two innocent young 
souls ?” 

By this time it was night. The dessert was 
now on the table, which required but guests 
around it to make a very charming scene. Mr. 
Weston had drunk a great deal of wine, and 
was in a feverish, excited condition. Michael 
Lee still kept watch outside the door. The 
only voices that were heard were the voices of 
Mr. Weston and Mr. “Rowe. This latter per- 
son seemed determined not to lose sight of the 
principal object in his mind, and almost every 
word he uttered had reference to it. 


* at the sign of tj 

“At such a time as this,” he said, “ it is but 
natural that our thoughts should revert to those 
who are gone. I am thinking now of my dead 
Philip, with reference to worldly things. Do 
you know, friend, that I would cheerfully live 
the rest of my days in poverty if the sacrifice of 
my worldly goods would bring my son to life ?” 

“They are the natural feelings of a father,” 
responded Mr. Weston. “Were I in your 
place, I would surely do the same.” 

“And yet how strangely do we regulate our 
actions with reference to those we love ! While 
they live, we thwart their dearest hopes ; when 
they are gone, we are ready to make the ex- 
tremest sacrifice upon the altar of our affections. 
But then it is too late.” 

He would have proceeded further but that a 
sudden spasm from Mr. Weston diverted his at- 
tention. Following the direction of Mr. Wes- 
ton’s eyes, he turned toward the folding win- 
dows. 

“ Did you hear nothing ?" asked Mr. Wes- 
ton, in a low tone. 

“No.” 

“I fancied,” murmured Mr. Weston, in ex- 
planation, “that I heard a step upon the ve- 
randa.” 

Mr. Rowe went to the window, and partly 
drew the curtains aside. The moon was ris- 
ing, and the soft light could be seen through 
the opening. 

“ There is no one there,” said Mr. Rowe, re- 
turning to Mr. Weston’s side. “As I was say- 
ing, when we have lost those whom we loved 
best in the world, and whose natural and inno- 
cent desires we thwarted while they lived, we 
beat our breasts and^eproach ourselves — ” 

Again he was interrupted. Michael Lee, 
the doorkeeper, entered the room, and follow- 
ing Mr. Rowe’s last word, came Michael Lee’s 
announcement : 
l “Mr. Reuben Thorne.” 

Mr. Weston’s face grew white as the person 
announced approached and bowed. 

“I am late,” said the new-comer, dropping 
into a chair ; “but better late than never, they 
say.” He poured out a glass of claret, and ris- 
ing, said, with another bow to Mr. Weston,- 
“Your health,” and again resumed his seat. 

“Am I dreaming?” asked Mr. Weston, in 
a low tone of fear, addressing himself to Mr. 
Rowe. 

Reuben Thorne heard the words, and before 
Mr. Rowe could speak, himself replied, 

“ No, faith, it is I who have been dreaming 
— dreaming for many years. Life is a dream 
— and death — But we will not speak of that. 
Live and learn, they say. Let us correct the 
maxim. Die and Jearn, is infinitely truer, as 
all men will find. If we could live and un- 
learn, it would be better for us. ’Tis a con- 
flict, from the cradle to the grave — heart 
against head. And head wins, the rule is. 
Men would be happier were it otherwise. Bet- 
ter for us to go back, and play at children over 
again.” 


[E SILVER FLAGON. 87 

He was the exact counterpart of one of the 
pictures on the wall, so like in every detail of 
dress and personal appearance that he could 
not have been more like had he actually been 
the living embodiment of the portrait, and left 
the frame without a tenant. But the picture 
was there and the man was there, and the man 
looked up at the painted likeness of himself with 
some kind of satisfaction. 

“If my memory serves me,” he continued, 
still addressing Mr. Weston, “ it was a good 
old fashion for the chairman to welcome his 
guests as they arrived. You seem surprised 
to see me here, and have addressed to me not 
one word of welcome. At all events, we can 
drink wine together.” 

He raised his glass, and Mr. Weston mechan- 
ically raised his. Bowing to each other, they 
emptied their glasses simultaneously. Then 
Mr. Weston spoke for the first time. 

“ I remember the words you uttered on the 
anniversary of our fourth gathering. I recalled 
them before you entered. > You promised to 
visit the last of the thirteen who was left and 
take wine with him. You asked if the others 
would join you ; all, or nearly all, promised to 
do so.” He shuddered as he spoke. 

“The promise will be redeemed by our 
friends,” said Reuben Thorne, “as it is re- 
deemed by me. But I have another purpose 
in coming to-night.” 

“ What purpose ?” 

“A purpose which I am not the only one 
engaged in. Others are with me. You will 
know more presently. Do you find any change 
in me ?” 

“ None — it seems as though not a year had 
passed over your head since I last saw you.” 

“That is many years ago now. I see a 
change in you. Your hair is white ; you are 
an old man. Perhaps in another year you, too, 
will have passed away from among men. It 
will be well for you if you have sown no seeds 
of unhappiness, which inay grow into life mis- 
eries when you have gone. Even I, with no 
human ties, even I, who had no wife or child, 
Avould, if I could, live my time over again.” 

“Yet you were the happiest of all our party,” 
said Mr. Weston, nerving himself by a strong 
effort to sustain his part in the conversation, 
gaining courage to do so through the wine 
which he drank freely; “you can have no re- 
grets.” 

“I have one.” He looked toward the por- 
trait of Stephen Viner with anger. “ If I had 
known what was to occur through that man’s 
villainy — if I had known the end of those two 
young lives, the melancholy fate of Caroline 
Miller and Edward Blair, I would have saved 
them despite the penalty I would have had to 
pay.” 

“How would you have saved them ?” 

“I would have killed the man,” said Reu- 
ben Thorne, quietly, “who by his cruelty de- 
stroyed two innocent lives. I would have kill- 
ed one to save two.” 


88 


AT THE SIGN OE THE SILVER FLAGON. 


Mr. W eston scarcely heard these last words ; 
a step upon the veranda drew his attention 
from Reuben Thorne. Again Michael Lee’s 
voice was heard : 

“Clarence Coveney.” 

A man, fifty years of age, entered, dressed 
as Reuben Thorne was dressed, in the fashion 
of a bygone generation. He bowed to Mr. 
Weston, and took his seat. 

“Once more,” he said, nodding to Reuben 
Thorne. 

“ Once more,” responded Reuben Thorne. 
“ We were speaking of Stephen Viner.” 

“He is not here.” 

“ No ; but he will come.” 

Other steps upon the veranda, and presently 
Michael Lee’s voice again : 

“ Henry Holmes. Rachel Holmes.” 

Two,, whose' names only proclaimed them 
brother and sister, entered, with the same cer- 
emony, and took their seats. They were un- 
like each other in appearance, and the lady, 
who was young, seemed the more assured of 
the two. 

“It is long since we met,” she said, in soft, 
clear tones, to Mr. Weston, “and Henry was 
somewhat doubtful of the Avelcome we should 
receive.” 

“Why should he be doubtful?” asked Reu- 
ben Thorne. “Every one here has a claim to 
be present. Is it not so ?’■ to Mr. Weston. 

“It is so,” replied Mr. Weston. 

“And all are welcome,” continued Reuben 
Thorne. 

“And all are welcome,” repeated Mr. Wes- 
ton, mechanically. The - words seemed to be 
forced from him. 

“Whether the proposition,” said Reuben 
Thorne, “to meet once in every year, as we 
did for many years — each more or-less accord- 
ing to the tenor of his life — was or was not a 
wise one, it was accepted by all without de- 
mur. Let us, then, now that we. have met 
once again, banish all ideas of strangeness from 
our minds ; let us be cordial and friendly to 
one another, as we once were. This meeting 
will be the last. Let us be merry ; and let only 
those be sad who have no regrets.” 

“If that were so in life,” said Rachel 
Holmes, “ there would be less sorrow in it.” * 

“Somewhat of a philosophical paradox, that,” 
observed the landlord of The Silver Flagon. 

The circumstance of Mr. Rowe taking part 
in the conversation brought relief to Mr. Wes- 
ton. The scene in which he was playing a 
part seemed to be less unreal, and he was less 
startled by the voice of Michael Lee, the door- 
keeper, who announced, in quick succession : 

“James Blanchard. Thomas Chatterton. 
Ephraim Goldberg.” 

Mr. Weston rose and bowed to them as they 
entered. 

“ There are eight of us now,” said Reuben 
Thorne, in a cheerful tone ; “but five more re- 
main. I remember well the occasion and the 
motive that first brought us together.” 


Another guest joined the party in the midst 
of the speech. 

“Frederick Fairfax.” 

“ Nine,” continued Reuben Thorne. “If 
this meeting is less pleasant than the first, it is 
not a whit less strange. Surely that is Dinah 
Dim’s step upon the veranda.” 

They all turned their faces to the door. 

“Dinah Dim,” called out Michael Lee. 

An old woman, with snow-white* hair, tall 
and bent, entered the room with a light step, 
and looked briskly around. Her likeness to her 
picture on the wall was something marvelous. 

Not a hair was out of its place ; of this there 
were five rows of curls on either side of her 
head; mittens on her hands and wrists; her 
.gown of old-fashioned brocade ; a scarf across 
her shoulders ; eyes very bright ; hands small 
apd white ; a complexion like a peach. 

“So you are all before me,” she said, in 
quick, silvery tones — “that scamp, Reuben 
Thorne, how are you, my child ? — and the 
Holmes, and Mr. Blanchard, and Coveney, and 
Fairfax, and Chatterton, and Goldberg. Is 
that all ? Ah, no ; here is my child, Richard 
Weston,” She courtesied to him, and held 
out her hand ; he took it in his. ‘ ‘ Why, 
child, you forget what to do with it ; you used 
to kiss it when you were younger.” He kissed 
her fingers. “ Your hair is as white as mine, 
child ; when I first knew you it was bright and 
curly. I shall take my seat next to you. And 
there, is my friend, Mr. Rowe — as straight as 
an arrow. Now, my dears, why do we want 
the attendants about us ? We -can help our- 
selves, and chat more freely. Send them away, 

Mr. Rowe, send them aw^ty.” 

At a sign from Mr. Rowe, the attendants, 
nothing loath, left the room, and did not enter 
again. The old lady continued : 

“Now we can breathe. How many chairs 
are empty? One, two, three. Stephen Viner, 
the monster, is not here ; and those two poor 
children — ah, me ! Give me something to 
drink. No, not wine ; water. I hope none of 
you will drink too much. Reuben Thorne, put j 
down that glass. Drink was your ruin, and 
you know it. Who was speaking before I en- 
tered?” 

“ I,” replied Reuben Thorne. 

“You always had plenty to say. Go on, . j 
then ; I dare say I interrupted you.” 

“The subject was about our first meeting 
not being more strange than this. Let me 
thank you for your presence here. . You do not 
forget that, it was I who first proposed this * . 
gathering.” 

“ You have nothing to thank us for,” said 
Rachel Holmes; “we are controlled by inde- 
pendent forces.” 

“Rachel Holmes,” cried Dinah Dim, “your 
words were always very nearly unintelligible to 
sensible ears. Go on, Reuben.” 

“ I have nothing to go on with particularly, 
and nothing very particular to say. My mind 
is filled by but one subject just now.” 


89 


AT THE SIGN OF T] 

“What subject?” 

The absent ones — two whom we loved, 
one whom we hated. Say— am I right ?” 

“We all share your feelings,” said Dinah 
Dim. 

“I would prefer to hear each speak for 
himself, said Reuben Thorne, his eyes trav- 
eling from one to the other of the strange com- 
pany. 

One after another expressed their adherence 
to his sentiments with reference to the three who 
were absent. 

“All but Mr. Weston have spoken,” said 
Reuben Thorne. 

“If I know any thing of Richard Weston’s 
heart,” said Dinah Dim, “he agrees with us 
with all his soul. Why, of all our company, 
he is. the man who was ever the most eloquent 
on the beauty of love. He married for love, 
my children. I call upon you to drink to the 
memory of his wife.” 

All the guests rose and drank the toast, bow- 
ing to Mr. Weston ns they did so. He raised 
his glass, and drank with them. 

“ Who,” continued Dinah Dim, with vivaci- 
ty, “has the best claim to speak with author- 
ity upon this subject. It is not unknown to 
us that in his married life he tasted the sweet 
happiness that springs from mutual love. And 
when he lost his wife, did he not write upon 
her tombstone, ‘ Love sweetens all ; love levels 
all ?’ Honor to the man who, not in theory 
but in practice, carried out this noblest, of all 
the creeds. It is fit that he should be the last 
survivor, and that he should preside to-night. 
Dear children, you know I was the oldest of 
the thirteen, and you always treated -me with 
kindness. Well, it was right that it should be 
so, for I might have been the grandmother of 
some, when we first met. But it was my sad 
fate to dream only of the happiness which I 
once fondly hoped would be mine. I do not re- 
member that I ever told you my story — ” she 
turned to Mr. Weston for confirmation or cor- 
rection. 

“I never heard it,” he said. 

“It is soon told. The man I loved- was 
drowned at sea before we were married. That’s 
the history of my life. He was drowned, and 
I lost him. That is how I grew into an old 
maid, living upon the memory of love. I found 
my consolation, as all find it who are faithful. 
Though,” said Dinah Dim, her tones becoming 
lighter, “I think that Reuben Thorne would 
have tried to tempt me to change my name had 
I been ten years younger.” 

“I might,” assented Reuben Thorne, “had 
I not suspected that you were Constancy.” 

A shade of grief rested for a moment- oh 
Dinah Dim’s face. “ I had that word used t« 
me once when my heart was beating with the 
anticipation of a happy future.” 

“By your lover?” 

“By my lover, lost to me for many years ; 
lost when I loved him most.” 

A heavy step was heard upon the veranda, 


[E SILVER FLAGON. 

and there was silence in the room until the 
voice of Michael Lee was heard : 

“ Stephen Viner.” 

Almost before the words had passed his lips, 
the new-comer had made his way to the table, 
and without a motion or word of salutation 
dropped into a chair. 


IV. 

Margaret’s triumph. 

A dead silence reigned for many moments 
after the appearance of the last comer. All 
eyes were turned upon him in anger and dis- 
pleasure, but he did not raise his face to meet 
their gaze. It was a cruel face, with hard lines 
in it, a face which ordinarily was devoid of any 
expression of kindness ; but although sternness 
was native to it, irresolution and some signs of 
remorse were visible on this occasion. That 
he heard no word of welcome Was evidently — if 
one might judge from appearances — distressing 
to him, and he sat in silence, with hands tight- 
ly clenched beneath the table. 

It was now ten o’clock, and the moon was at 
its full. The curtains of the window had been 
drawn aside by one of the guests, and the light 
of a lovely moon added to the peacefulness and 
beauty of the night. The landlord of The Sil- 
ver Flagon regarded the guests watchfully and 
warily, and with uneasiness ; but his attention 
jyas principally directed to. Mr. Richard Wes- 
■ ton. The old gentleman’s face was flushed with 
wine and excitement; after the first feelings 
of fear and dismay at the appearance of these 
unexpected visitors, he had striven hard to nerve 
himself, so that he might play his part in this 
strange scene in a befitting manner ; that his 
nerves, however, were highly strung was proven 
by an occasional convulsive twining of his fin- 
gers, and by his placing his hands before his 
eyes and then removing them, as though to 
prove to the evidence of his senses that he was 
not dreaming. Dinah Dim, who sat next to 
him, was also very attentive in her observance 
of him, and now and again placed her hand 
on his, land took away the wine-glass which he 
would! have raised to his lips. 

She was the first to speak. 

“The presence of this man,” she cried, in 
an agitated tone, “ is contamination. Why is 
he here on this last night of our ever meeting ?” 

Stephen Viner, with his eyes fixed still upon 
the table, seemed to wait in expectation of 
some other person speaking. As no one an- 
swered Dinah Dim’s question, he did so. 

“I was constrained to come,” he said. 

“For what reason?” she retorted. “For 
your own pleasure or ours ? Friends, I appeal 
to you ; did this man’s presence ever bring one 
smile to our lips, or engender one kindly thought 
or feeling?” 

“Never,” answered Reuben Thorne; and 
“never” answered the others. 


90 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


“His life was a curse to himself, and to those 
whom a sad fortune placed in his power. * I ask 
again, why is he here ?” 

“Your words are harsh,” said Stephen Viner, 
raising his hand as if for mercy. “ Your tone 
is pitiless.” 

Dinah Dim laughed scornfully. “ This man 
talks of pity,” she exclaimed, “in whose cruel 
breast no spark of it ever dwelt. A pretty 
preacher truly !” 

“I have told you,” he said, in a low tone, 
“that I was constrained to come to-night. 
Say that I am here for judgment.” 

“ What kind of judgment,” demanded Dinah 
Dim, “ can you expect from us who know you ? 
Has not your own heart punished you suffi- 
ciently ?” 

“It has,” he replied, placing his hand to his 
breast with a gasp of passion. “Can I not 
make atonement?” 

“ What atonement, after all these years ?” 

“ I can ask their forgiveness ; I can tell 
them, as I tell you, that I repent of my cruel- 
ty, and that if the years could roll back — alas 
for me that they can not! — I would act dif- 
ferently.” 

“See you now, my children,” said Dinah 
Dim, rising — “see you now, Richard Weston, 
who has tasted the priceless blessing of pure 
devoted love — this man who deliberately de- 
stroyed the happiness of two young lovers, 
comes before us when it is too late, and re- 
pents when it is too late. A pretty atonement 
truly is this that he proposes to make by asking 
the forgiveness of two innocent young creatures 
whom he drove to their death, and whose only 
crime was that they loved. What judgment 
should we pass upon him — what judgment does 
he deserve ? As you sow, you shall reap. Let 
this man reap as he has sown. Would any one 
here hold out to him the hand of friendship ?” 

“Not one,” answered Reuben Thorne, and 
every person present echoed his words. Even 
Mr. Weston, toward whom Dinah Dim looked 
for assent, said, “Not one.” 

“ Shall the curse of money,” proceeded Di- 
nah Dim, “ forever outweigh love — love that hu- 
manizes the world ? The man who, for money’s 
sake, deliberately drags two loving souls asun- 
der — the man who, for money’s sake, deliber- 
ately poisons the lives of two young creatures 
whose hearts are drawn together by the! holiest 
sentiment which sweetens life — brings desola- 
tion upon his soul here and hereafter. Who 
among us has done this?” 

“ Stephen Viner,” said Reuben Thorne, and 
again they all echoed his words. All but Mr. 
Weston, over whose face a convulsive shudder 
passed. Dinah Dim looked at him for a mo- 
ment, and observing his agitation did not press 
him to join in the general condemnation. 

“Let Stephen Viner, then,” said Dinah 
Dim, sternly, “go from among us. His pres- 
ence brings shame upon us.” 

The man thus judged and condemned gazed 
appealingly around, but saw no pitying sign. 


As he rose to go, Dinah Dim held up a warn- 
ing hand, and Michael Lee’s voice was heard 
for the last time : 

“ Caroline Miller. Edward Blair.” 

The lovers entered, side by side. Rachel 
Holmes moved from her place, and passed her 
arm around the waist of the young girl, who 
seemed to need support. They approached 
with slow and hesitating steps, and Mr. Weston 
turned toward them ; but he did not see their 
faces. The excitement of the scene had com- 
pletely overpowered him, and, with a wild mo- 
tion of his hands, he* sank to the ground in a 
state of insensibility. 

****** 

When he recovered, he was lying on the 
ground, and Gideon Rowe was kneeling by his 
side. Uncertain whether he was awake or 
asleep, he closed his eyes, and seemed to fall 
naturally into a quiet dream — but a dream in 
which he was conscious — though not actually 
interested — of all that passed around him. It 
was as he lay thus, with his eyes closed, that 
he felt the influence of a womanly presence, in 
soft touches, and murmured words, and a ten- 
derness of action not to be expressed. Opening 
his eyes, he saw no woman, but only his friend, 
Gideon Rowe, the landlord of The Silver Flag- 
on, by his side. 

“That is well, that is well,” said Gideon 
Rowe, gently. “You feel better now.” 

Mr. Weston held his hands for a little while 
before he spoke. “ I do not feel ill. Why am 
I here? What has occurred? Ah,” he cried, 
with a shudder, as his eyes fell upon the folding 
windows of the room, “I remember now. Are 
they still there ?” 

“They! Who?” 

“They! Who!” echoed Mr. Weston, w^on- 
deringly and weakly. “Can you ask? — you 
were by my side.” 

“Come, come,” said Gideon Rowe, in a 
soothing tone, “you must not distress yourself 
with fancies. Why do you look so strangely 
toward the room ? No person is in it. You 
were overcome, and you fainted. But you 
are strong now. Come, let us see if you can 
walk a bit. That’s right, that’s right.” He as- 
sisted Mr. Weston to rise, and they paced the 
veranda slowly, Gideon Rowe purposely paus- 
ing by the window, to give Mr. Weston assur- 
ance and to dispel his fears. “Will you go 
in?” 

“No, no,” cried Mr. Weston, “we will sit 
here ; the night is very beautiful. Do you be- 
lieve in omens ?” 

“No.” 

“ Has any serious one ever occurred to you ?” 

“None, in my remembrance.” 

“Were you not telling me of poor Philip’s 
death some time to-night ?” 

“Yes,” replied Gideon "Rowe, with a heavy 
sigh. 

“How did he die? What was the cause 
of his death ?” 

“Poor lad ! he died by fire. It is a dread- 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


ful story.” The father’s voice was shaken by 
grief. J 

“If it will not distress you too much to tell 
me, said Mr. Weston, taking Gideon Rowe’s 
hand, “I should like to hear more about him. 
Do not think me unkind, but I am in a strange 
mood. I feel like a child. What o’clock is it ?” 
“Past midnight.” 

“About Philip, now ; indulge me. I loved 
the boy myself.” 

“Your Gerald loved him; they were true 
friends. Had Philip lived, they would have 
found much joy in their friendship, but fate 
willed it otherwise. Poor Philip died in the 
gold-fields, in Australia — but I promised that 
you should hear the story from the lips of the 
widow. Will you see her? She is very near.” 

“I fancied just now when I awoke that a 
woman was near me.” 

“It was Margaret.” 

“Margaret!” echoed Mr. Weston. The 
name brought with it reproachful remem- 
brances. 

“ Ihat is the name of the girl Philip married.” 
“ Yes, I will see her. One moment ; I must 
not miss saying what was in my mind. I was 
speaking of omens. You had no foreshadow- 
ing of Philip’s death ?” 

“None; the poor lad was dead for many 
months before I heard the news.” 

“But omens come occasionally to some per- 
sons.” 

“I have read and heard so.” 

“ Gideon, one has come to me ; it may fore- 
shadow my death. I have seen the dead.” 

Gideon Rowe made no comment upon this, 
but went to the end of the veranda, and called 
“Margaret.” 

Margaret — our Margaret— herself appeared, 
simply dressed. She approached Mr. Weston, 
with a gently serious expression on her beau- 
tiful face. 

“It is you,” he exclaimed, gazing at her in 
wonder. 

“Yes,” she said, “poor Philip was my hus- 
band.” 

“ Why did you not tell me this before, Mar- 
garet ?” 

“ I had my reasons. Perhaps I was not sure 
whether I could trust you.” 

“ Margaret,” interposed Gideon Rowe, “Mr. 
Weston wishes to hear the particulars of our 
poor boy’s death ; I promised that you should 
tell him.” 

Margaret turned her head ; herlips trembled ; 
tears rushed to her eyes. 

“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Weston, with ready 
sympathy; he was much softened during the 
last few hours; “another time. It will pain 
her too much.” 

But Margaret had a purpose in telling the 
story, and she related the particulars of Philip’s 
death in simple language and in feeling tones. 
She felt every word she spoke ; she was not 
acting now, and natural pathos it was that drew 
tears from Mr. Weston. 


91 

“I saw my devoted darling in the flames,” 
said Margaret, between her sobs, “ looking for 
me with blind eyes. I tried to get to him, but 
they held their arms round me, and I could 
not escape from them. But there was one— 
ah, there was one— who, seeing my despair and 
Philip’s peril, rushed into the flames to save his 
friend. Too late, alas ! he dragged my darling 
out of the burning house, but could not save his 
life ; yet he gave my Philip to me for a few 
blessed hours.” Overcome by her emotion, 
Margaret paused. 

‘A noble action !” said Mr. Weston, softlv. 
“A noble Man!” 

Margaret nerved herself to proceed. “ He 
and I nursed Philip, and watched the life die 
out of him. Every word my darling uttered 
is graven on my heart. ‘ Dear old fellow !’ he 
said, with feeble gasps, to this dearest of friends. 

1 Noble old fellow ! God bless Margaret and 
you!’ ” 

“Indeed, indeed,” said Mr. Weston, “a 
blessing should fall upon such a man !” 

“.‘Take care of Margaret,’ whispered my 
Philip; ‘be a father to her. Dear old dad! 

I hoped to see you, and show you my darling. 
But he will bring her to you.’ He uttered but 
few words after that,” continued Margaret, 
who, standing now between Mr. Weston and 
Philip’s father, held a hand of each, “ but they 
all referred to his noble friend and to me, and 
you, sir” (to Gideon Rowe), “whom he loved 
most tenderly. So my Philip died. Perhaps 
he hears me tell the sad story of our love on 
this solemn, beautiful night. Philip, my dar- 
ling !” she murmured, softly, raising her tearful 
eyes to the bright heavens; “if you can help 
me bring the blessing you invoked on our dear 
friend’s head, you will bring blessing also to 
your Margaret, in whose heart you will live till 
she comes to join you in a better world than 
this!” 

“Is this friend, then, unhappy?” asked Mr. 
Weston, with no suspicion of the truth' 

“Most unhappy — most undeservedly unhap- 
py. Ah, sir, if you had it in your power, would 
you not help him — would you not be proud to 
bring joy into the life of such a man ? You 
were right in calling him noble. Such a nature 
as his ennobles the world! And yet at this 
moment he is stricken down by grief.” 

“He is here, then— an England ?” 

“ He is here, in England, in Devonshire, 
within sound of my voice.” 

“ What is his name?” 

“ I must relate an incident of his early life 
before I tell you, in proof that this act of devo- 
tion toward my Philip was not the only act of 
sacrifice and devotion he has performed. Not 
the only one, do I say ? His life is full of noble 
deeds. When he was young he had a friend — 
nay, do not take your hand away ; he and his 
friend loved the same girl. He saw that the 
girl’s heart was given to his friend, whom he 
had kept in ignorance of the state of his affec- 
tions, out of consideration for him. Listen 


92 


AT THE SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON. 


now to what this man did when he fully learned 
the truth. Loving this girl, he could not re- 
main near her without betraying himself. 
Knowing that the revelation of his love would 
bring distress both to his friend and the girl he 
loved, he went from them suddenly. He did 
more than this ; his friend at that time was* not 
rich. He himself had some little store of money 
— between one and two thousand pounds, as 
near as I can learn ; he placed this money — the 
whole of his fortune — in the hands of a lawyer, 
to be given to the girl, with strict instructions 
that neither she nor his friend should know 
from whom it came. It is now for the first 
time that his friend hears of this act of sacri- 
fice and unselfishness — Why do you turn from 
me ?” 

“Let me be, child, for a few moments,” said 
Mr. Weston, in broken tones; “I might have 
guessed — I might have guessed. Where in the 
world could I find another such noble heart as 
Gerald’s ? I have wronged him— deeply wrong- 
ed him.”’ 

“A fault confessed is half atoned for,” said 
Margaret, pursuing her advantage. “Com- 
plete the atonement. You can do so.” 

‘ 1 1 know it, child ; but my promise is given 
elsewhere. You do not know what strange 
things have happened, this night, Margaret, 
that, apart from what you have told me of the 
noble nature of the friend I have wronged, 
would induce me to complete the atonement. 
Margaret, I have been visited by the spirits of' 
the dead — by men and women who passed out 
of the world years and years ago, and whose 
faces I have seen only in my dreams. They 
came to warn me, as it seems— but I can not 
speak of it.” 

Margaret assisted him to a chair, and knelt 
by his side, Gideon Rowe standing a few paces 
away. 

“Do not disregard their warning,” she said, 
sweetly, “if you disregard my pleading — for I 
do plead, and you know for whom.” 

“I know — I know; but my promise stands 
in the way.” 

“What promise?” 

“ Gerald is promised to another — I have en- 
gaged myself in honor, to her mother.” 

Margaret smiled tenderly. “What is the 
name of the young lady ?” 

“ Miss Forester. You saw her on the un- 
happy night that Gerald Hunter left my house 
with his daughter.” 

“ I fc was an unhappy night for all of us. If 
this promise did not bind you—” 

He took up her words. “If this promise 
did not bind me, I would, if I could find the 
courage to do so, and if Gerald and Lucy truly 
loved each other, go to my friend— of whose 
goodness every day that I speak of him brings 
fresh proof and ask the hand of his daughter 
for my son.” 

Such happiness stirred Margaret’s heart at 
these words that he felt her warm tears upon 
his hand as she kissed it again and again. 


“ I can not express my joy,” she said, “for 
I know that you never yet forfeited a promise. 
Father,” she called Gideon Rowe to her side, 
and whispered a few words of instruction in 
his ear. He nodded smilingly, and left her. 

“ Dear Mr. Weston, if such a sentiment as pure 
love exists— and we know it does — it exists in 
the hearts of Lucy and Gerald. As for Miss 
Forester, here she is to speak for herself.” 

If Miss Forester and Rachel Holmes were 
one and the same person, then Mr. Weston 
might have believed that Miss Forester was 
there to speak for herself; for the lady \ylio 
came now upon the scene was dressed in the 
old-fashioned garments worn by Rachel Holmes 
when she made her appearance at the dinner, 
an unexpected and certainly unwelcome guest. 
Finding no clue’to the enigma, and sorely dis- 
turbed by the late occurrences, Mr. Weston 
grasped Margaret’s hand, and clung to her, as 
if for protection. 

“ She is no phantom,” said Margaret, with a 
smile ; “ she is really and truly flesh and blood, 
as you and I are. I see that you are filled with 
wonder, and if you will say, ‘Margaret, I for- 
give you,’ I will explain what is now. a mystery 
to you, and will relieve your mind of the fears 
which oppress you.” 

“If you can do that,” he responded, “I say 
freely ‘ Margaret, I forgive you,’ whatever it is 
that you have done.” 

Again Margaret called Gideon Rowe to her 
side, and again, with a few whispered words, 
dispatched him to do her bidding. 

“ I have played the part of an invisible Ariel 
to-night. The truest friend I ever had or ever ' 
shall have, the noblest soul I have ever known, 
is your friend, Gerald Hunter. He has render- 
ed me such services as no man or woman could 
ever possibly forget ; he risked his life forme 
and mine, and has imbued me with unspeakable 
gratitude and admiration. At Silver Creek, 
where I first met my poor Philip, I learned that : 
Mr. Hunter had a daughter at home in England, 
a daughter whom he loved with a tender and 
beautiful love. She was the pulse of his life ; 
as she suffered and enjoyed, he suffered and 
enjoyed, and her happiness was nearest and 
dearest to his heart. You have heard the story J 
of our lives at Silver Creek, and of my darling 
Philip’s death, and you can understand with 
what feelings of deep regard and veneration I • 
looked up to this steadfast friend. We came 
home, and he had the happiness of embracing his 
Lucy, whom he had left a child, and who was now ■■ 
grown into a beautiful woman. And as good ' l , 
and as pure, sir, as she is beautiful. But I dis- l 
covered that Lucy had a secret grief which 
would soon send her to her grave, unless it 
were dispelled. Ah, sir, you do not know the 
truth, the constancy, the depth of tenderness 
which dwell in that dear girl’s soul ! We came . 
to your house as visitors. I was the first who 
saw that your Gerald and my Lucy were lovers j 
— had been lovers before her father’s return 
home— and I did my best to aid them. We 


93 


AT THE SIGN OF T] 

had to keep this secret from you, for you were 
bent upon other views for Gerald, and I learn- 
ed to my dismay that certain words which pass- 
ed between you and Mr. Hunter would cause 
him to sacrifice his own and Lucy’s happiness 
rather than that she should marry your sou 
without your consent. Then came that unhap- 
py night when your friend went from your 
house, with his heart almost broken by the be- 
lief that he had been deceived where most he 
trusted. Now, sir, I had pledged myself to 
bring Lucy and Gerald together, and to obtain 
what I have already obtained (see, sir, how 
bold I am !) — your consent to their union. In 
the face of all the difficulties, how was I to ac- 
complish this? I flew to a friend, by name 
Lewis Nathan, a Jew, and an old sweetheart 
of my mother’s ; they would, have married but 
that their religions were different. I had dis- 
covered tllat you had a Bluebeard’s room in 
your house, and acting upon Mr. Nathan’s sug- 
gestion, we entered the room during your ab- 
sence, and saw only thirteen portraits hanging 
oii the walls — nothing more. When Mr. Hun- 
ter and Lucy left your house I was in despair, 
for I saw no way of accomplishing my desire. 

I made myself known to Philip’s father in this 
dear old Silver Flagon, and I won my way to 
his heart. 

“I had not been in the house a week before 
I found myself in a room hung round with por- 
traits— thirteen of them — exact duplicates of 
those which line your Bluebeard’s room. Cu- 
rious to know, I coaxed the story of these pic- 
tures out of Mr. Rowe, and then I thought I 
saw a way to win your consent. I consulted 
Mr. Nathan, and we planned the scheme. It 
was a desperate expedient, dear sir, but I am a 
bold creature, as you know, and I alone am re- 
sponsible for all that has occurred to-night. I 
am an actress, and some of those who present- 
ed themselves to you at the dinner are actors 
whom I engaged from the theatre. All your 
guests were not professionals, sir. This lady, 
Miss Forester — who is Miss Forester no long- 
er, for, determining not to be forced into a dis- 
tasteful marriage, she was married to-day by 
the registrar to the gentleman to whom her 
heart is given — entered with fervor into my 
scheme, and personated Rachel Holmes ; her 
husband personated Henry Holmes. See, sir, 
some of your late guests are in the garden. 
Here are your spectacles ; I could not afford 


:e silver flagon. 

that you should wear them before ; I was fear- 
ful lest your sight should be too sharp for me. 
Hid we play our parts well, sir? Reuben 
Thorne was taken by my trusty friend, Mr. 
Lewis Nathan. And I, sir, am Dinah Dim, 
very much at your service.” 

# Mr - Weston revolved this explanation in 
his mind during many moments of silence. I 
am not disposed to follow the current of his 
thoughts ; he was a worldly man, and an anal- 
ysis might detract from the grace of the act 
which he presently performed. He was com- 
pelled to confess that he had been conquered, 
and he found some consolation in the inex- 
pressible relief he experienced in being relieved 
of his fears. He had a question or two to ask, 
however. 

“ Who was Stephen Viner ?” 

“An actor.” 

“And Caroline Miller and Edward Blair?” 

“Lucy and Gerald, sir. I was doubtful of 
them from the first, afraid that their feelings 
might betray them.” 

‘ “ Rowe,” said Mr. Weston, to the landlord of 
The Silver Flagon, “you had a doorkeeper ?” 

“Yes — Michael Lee by name.” 

“Where is he ?” 

Margaret interposed. “ That is another of 
my secrets, sir. My father had not seen your 
friend, Gerald Hunter, until he introduced him- 
self .to-night.” 

“ I have not seen him,” said Gideon Rowe. 

“You have,” replied Margaret, with a smile ; 
“he is Michael Lee.” 

****** 

There is no need' to say more. Our Mar- 
garet won the day— and night. . Truly, it was 
a triumph of love. As Richard Weston and 
Gerald Hunter stood face to face clasping hands 
once more, and as they turned toward their 
children, who were radiant with joy, Margaret 
murmured to herself the name of “Philip,” and 
looked up to heaven, not unhappily. They re- 
mained together until morning broke. As the 
wondrous colors came into the sky, Margaret 
said to Mr. Hunter, 

“Do you remember the night of the storm 
in Silver Creek, when you were robbed of your 
money, and when you and Philip and I stood 
at the window watching the day break ?” 

“I do, dear Margaret — dear daughter.” 

“ God bless you,” she said, with a sob. 

“And you, my dear,” he softly answered. 


THE END. 






JANU ARY BOOK -LIST. 

ISSiT* Harper & Brothers will send any of the following books by mail , postage prepaid, to any part of the 

United States, on receipt of the price. 

Harper’s New and Enlarged Catalogue, with a Complete Analytic Index, sent by mail on receipt 

of Ten Cents. 

Sir Samuel Baker’s Ismaili'a. 

Xsmailia : A Narrative of the Expedition to Central Africa for the Suppression of the Slave 
Trade. Organized by Ismail, Khedive of Egypt. . By Sir Samuel W. Baker, Pasha, M. A. t 
F.R.S., F.R.G.S. With Maps, Portraits, and upward of Fifty full-page Illustrations by 
Zwecker and Durand. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00. 

Myers’s Remains of Lost Empires. 

Remains of Lost Empires : Sketches of the Ruins of Palmyra, Nineveh, Babylon, and Per- 
sepolis, with some Notes on India and the Cashmerian Himalayas. By P. V. N. Myers 
A.M. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $3 50. 

The Little Lame Prince. 

By the Author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” Illustrations. Square i6mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

Hoppin’s Life of Admiral Foote. 

Life of Andrew Hull Foote, Rear-Admiral United States Navy. By James Mason Hoppin, 
Professor in Yale College. With a Portrait and Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $3 50. * 

Taylor’s David, King of Israel. 

David, King of Israel : His Life and its Lessons. By the Rev. William M. Taylor, 
D.D., Minister of the Broadway Tabernacle, New York City. i2mo, Cloth, $ 2 00. 

Wolf’s Wild Animals. 

The Life and Habits of Wild Animals. Illustrated from designs by Joseph Wolf. En- * 
graved by J. W. and Edward Whymper. With Descriptive Letter-press by Daniel 
Giraud Elliot, F.L.S., F.Z.S. 4to, Cloth, Gilt Edges, $4 00. 

Gail Hamilton’s Nursery Noonings. 

Nursery Noonings. By Gail Hamilton, Author of “Woman’s Worth and Worthless- 
ness,” “ Twelve Miles from a Lemon,” &c. i6mo, Cloth, $1 25. 

Bacon’s Genesis of the New England Churches. 

The Genesis of the New England Churches. By the Rev. Leonard Bacon, D.D. With 
Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 50. 

Nordhoff's Communistic Societies of the United States. 

The Communistic Societies ‘of the United States; from Personal Visit and Observation: 
including Detailed accounts of the Economists, Zoarites, Shakers, the- Amana, Oneida, 
Bethel, Aurora, Icarian, and Other Existing Societies, their Religious Creeds, Social Prac- 
tices, Numbers, Industries, and Present Condition. By Charles Nordhoff. With Illus- 
trations. 8vo, Cloth, $4 00. 



2 


Harper &* Brothers ’ List of New Books. 


Gladstone's Vatican Decrees. 

The Vatican Decrees in their Bearing on Civil Allegiance : A Political Expostulation. By 
the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, M.P. To which are added : A History of the Vatican 
Council; The Papal Syllabus of Errors (with English translation); and The Vatican De- 
crees Concerning the Catholic Faith and the Church of Christ (with English Translation). 
By the Rev. Philip Schaff, D.D., from his forthcoming work, “The Creeds of Christen- 
dom.” 8vo, Paper, 60 cents ; Cloth, $1 oo. 

Cjiarles Reade’s A Hero and a Martyr. 

A Hero and a Martyr. A True Narrative. By Charles Reade, Author of “Hard 
Cash,” “Foul Play,” &c. With a Portrait. 8vo, Paper, 15 cents. 

Gillmore’s Prairie and Forest. 

Prairie and Fore$£ : a Description of the Game of North America, with Personal Adven- 
tures in their Pursuit. By Parker Gillmore. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Lewis’s History of Germany. 

A History of Germany, from the Earliest Times. Founded on Dr. David Muller’s 
“ History of the German People.” By Charlton T. Lewis. With Illustrations. Crown 
8vo, Cloth, $2 50. 

Nast’s Illustrated Almanac for 1875 . 

With 90 Original Illustrations by Thomas Nast. Price 25 cents. Five copies sent to 
one address, postage prepaid, on Veceipt of $1 00. 

Douglass .Series of Greek and Latin Christian Authors. 

Douglass Series of Greek and Latin Christian Authors. With Notes by Francis A. 
March and W. C. Cattell. Two Volumes are now ready : 

LATIN HYMNS, with English Notes. For use in Schools and Colleges. By F. A. March, 
LL.D., Professor of Comparative Philology in Lafayette College. i2mo, Cloth, $1 75. 
THE ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY OF EUSEBIUS. The First Book and Selections. 
Edite’d for Schools and Colleges by F. A. March, LL.D. With an Introduction by A. 
Ballard, D.D., Professor of Christian Greek and Latin in Lafayette College ; and Explan- 
atory Notes by W. B. Owen, A.M., Adj. Professor of Christian Greek. i2mo, Cloth, $1 75. 

Nordhoff’s Politics for Young Americans. 

Politics for Young Americans. By Charles Nordhoff, Author of “The Communistic 
Societies of the United States,” “Northern California, Oregon, and the Sandwich Islands,” 
&c. . i2mo, Cloth, $1 25. 

Mill’s Logic: Revised Edition. 

A System of Logic, Ratiocinative and Inductive : being a Connected View of the Princi- 
ples of Evidence and the Methods of Scientific Investigation. By John Stuart Mill 
Printed from the Eighth )last) London Edition. 8vo, Cloth, $3 00; Sheep, $3 50. 

Nimrod of the Sea. 

Nimrod of the Sea; or, The American Whaleman. By William M. Davis. With many 
Illustrations. i2mo, Cloth, $2 00. 

Campaigning on the Oxus and the Fall of Khiva. 

By J. A. MacGahan. With Map and Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $3 50. 

Cairncs’s Political Economy. 

Some Leading Principles of Political Economy Newly Expounded. By J. E. Cairnes, M. A., 
Emeritus Prof, of Political Economy in University College, London. Crown 8vo, Cloth' $2 50! > 

Stanley’s Coomassie and Magdala. 

Coomassie and Magdala : a Story of Two British Campaigns in Africa. By Henry M 
Stanley. With Maps and Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $3 50. 








the 


WATER-WITCH 



The departure of Mr. Alderman Van Beverout. 

p. 6. 


BY 

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 





THE 


WATE E-WIT OH; 

OR, 

THE SKIMMER OF THE SEAS. 


A TALE. 



BY 


Jff FENIMOEE 


COOPER. 


Mais, que diable alloit-il fairo dans cette galere?” 

' 

ILLUSTRATED FROM DRAWINGS B7 F. 0. G. DARLEY. 


NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

549 & 551 BROADWAY. 

1874. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 

In tbe Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


> 


PREFACE. 


It was a bold attempt to lay the scene of a work like this, on the coast of America. 
We have had our Buccaneers on the water, and our Witches on the land, hut we believe 
f this is the first occasion on which the rule has been reversed. After an experience that 
l has now lasted mere than twenty years, the result has shown that the public prefer the 
original order of things. In other words, the book has proved a comparative failure. 

The facts of this country are all so recent and so familiar, that every innovation on 
j them,, by means of the imagination, is coldly received, if it be not absolutely frowned 
j upon. Perhaps it would have been safer to have written a work of this character with- 
out a reference to any particular locality. The few local allusions that are introduced 
J are not essential to the plot, and might have been dispensed with without lessening the 
interest of the tale. 

Nevertheless, this is probably the most imaginative book ever written by the author. 

; Its fault is in blending too much of the real with the purely ideal. Half-way measures 
will not do in matters of this sort ; and it is always safer to preserve the identity of a 
[ book by a fixed and determinate character, than to make the effort to steer between the 
' true and the false. 

Several* liberties have been taken with the usages of the colony, with a view to give 
f zest to the descriptions. If the Dutch of this country ever resorted to the common prac- 
tice of Holland, in giving such names as the “ Lust in Rust ” to their villas, it has not 
only passed out of sight, but out of mind. In the other country, as one moves along 
the canals, he sees names of this character, painted on different objects, every mile he 
advances, and admires the contentment which is satisfied with a summer-house, a pipe, 
a canal, a meadow that is almost under water, and, indeed, with a country that is what 
seamen term “ awash.” But nothing of this sort was ever seen here. The fine natural 
j scenery forbade it ; and a villa on the banks of the Hudson was a residence that pos- 
sessed in itself advantages to set at naught such small contrivances of luxury. 

Some persons may object to the manner in which we have sketched the conduct and 
[character of Cornbury. We believe, however, that the truth is not exceeded in any 
thing said of this individual, who would seem to have had neither dignity, self-respect, 
nor principles. The fact that he remained in this country a prisoner for debt, is histori- 
cal, his creditors most probably hoping to extort from Anne further concessions in be- 
half of her worthless relative. 


4 


PREFACE. 


As for the Patroon of Kinderhocik, the genus seems about to expire among us. Not 
only are we to have no more patroons, but the decree has gone forth from the virtuous 
and infallible voters that there are to be no more estates. 


“ All the realm shall be in common, and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass.” 


The collected wisdom of the State has decided that it is true policy to prevent the afflu- 
ent from investing their money in land ! The curse of mediocrity weighs upon us, and 
its blunders can be repaired only through the hard lessons of experience. 

This book was written in Italy, and first printed (in English) in Germany. To the 
last circumstance is probably owing the great number of typographical errors that are 
to be found in it. The American compositor, however, quite likely conceiving that he 
had a right to correct the blunders of a. foreigner, has taken the law into his own hands, 
and exercised a sovereign power over our labors. That our good old-fashioned mode 
of spelling should receive the modern improvements was, perhaps, unavoidable ; but 
surely, we never spelt “ coamings ” (of a hatch), “ combings ; ” “ rullock,” “ oar-lock,” or 
“row-lock; ” or made many other similar “’long-shore” blunders that are to be found 
in the original editions of this book. 

Care has been had to do ourselves justice in these particulars, and we think that the 
book is more improved, in all these respects, in the present edition, than any other work 
that has passed through our hands. 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse, 

Or shall we on without apology ? ” 

Romeo and Juliet. 

The fine estuary which penetrates the Amer- 
ican coast between the fortieth and forty-first 
degrees of latitude, is formed by the confluence 
of the Hudson, the Hackensack, the Passaic, the 
Raritan, and a multitude of smaller streams ; all 
of which pour their tribute into the ocean within 
the space named. The islands of Nassau and 
Staten are happily placed to exclude the tempests 
of the open sea, while the deep and broad arms 
of the latter offer every desirable facility for for- 
eign trade and internal intercourse. To this for- 
tunate disposition of land and water, with a tem- 
perate climate, a central position, and an immense 
interior, that is now penetrated in every direction 
either by artificial or by natural streams, the city 
of New York is indebted for its extraordinary 
prosperity. Though not wanting in beauty, there 
are many bays that surpass this in the charms of 
scenery ; but it may be questioned if the world 
possesses another site that unites so many natural 
advantages for the growth and support of a wide- 
ly-extended commerce. As if never wearied with 
her kindness, Nature has placed the island of 
Manhattan at the precise point that is most de- 
sirable for the position of a, town. Millions 
might inhabit the spot, and yet a ship should load 
near every door ; and, while the surface of the 
land just possesses the inequalities that are re- 
quired for health and cleanliness, its bosom is 
filled with the material most needed in construc- 
tion. 

The consequences of so unusual a concurrence 
of favorable circumstances, are well known. A 
vigorous, healthful, and continued growth, that 


has no parallel even in the history of this extraor- 
dinary and fortunate country, has already raised 
the insignificant provincial town of the last cen- 
tury to the level of the second-rate cities of the 
other hemisphere. The New Amsterdam of this 
continent already rivals its parent of the other ; 
and, so far as human powers may pretend to 
predict, a few fleeting years will place her on a 
level with the proudest capitals of Europe. 

It would seem that, as Nature has given its 
periods to the stages of animal life, it has also 
set limits to all moral and political ascendency. 
While the city of the Medici is receding from its 
crumbling walls, like the human form shrinking 
into “ the lean and slippered pantaloon,” the Queen 
of the Adriatic sleeping on her muddy isles, and 
Rome itself is only to be traced by fallen temples 
and buried columns, the youthful vigor of Amer- 
ica is fast covering the wilds of the West with the 
happiest fruits of human industry. 

By the Manhattanese who is familiar with the 
forest of masts, the miles of wharves, the count- 
less villas, the hundred churches, the castles, the 
smoking and busy 'Sssels that crowd his bay, the 
daily increase am the general movement of his 
native town, the picture we are about to sketch 
will scarcely be recognized. He who shall come 
a generation later will probably smile, that sub- 
ject of admiration should have been found in the 
existing condition of the city ; and yet we shall 
attempt to carry the recollections of the reader 
but a century back in the brief history of his 
country. 

As the sun rose on the morning of the 3d of 
June, 171-, the report of a cannon was heard 
rolling along the waters of the Hudson. Smoke 
issued from an embrasure of a small fortress, that 
stood on the point of land where the river and 
the bay mingle their waters. The explosion was 
followed by the appearance of a flag, which, as 


6 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


it rose to the summit of its staff and unfolded 
itself heavily in the light current of air, showed 
the blue field and red cross of the English en- 
sign. At the distance of several miles, the dark 
masts of a ship were to be seen, faintly relieved 
by the verdant background of the heights of 
Staten Island. A little cloud floated over this 
object, and then an answering signal came dull 
and rumbling to the town. The flag that the 
cruiser set was not visible in the distance. 

At the precise moment that the noise of the 
first gun was heard, the door of one of the princi- 
pal dwellings of the town opened, and a man, who 
might have been its master, appeared on its 
stoop, as the ill-arranged entrances of the build- 
ings of the place are still termed. He was seem- 
ingly prepared for some expedition that was like- 
ly to consume the day. A black of middle age 
followed the burgher to the threshold; and an- 
other negro, who had not yet reached the stature 
of manhood, bore under his arm a small bundle, 
that probably contained articles of the first ne- 
cessity to the comfort of his master. 

“ Thrift, Hr. Euclid, thrift is your true philos- 
opher’s stone,” commenced, or rather continued 
in a rich, full-mouthed Hutch, the proprietor of 
the dwelling, who had evidently been giving a 
leave-taking charge to his principal slave, before 
quitting the house — “ thrift hath made many a 
man rich, but it never yet brought any one to 
want. It is thrift which has built up the credit 
of my house, and, though it is said by myself, a 
broader back and firmer base belongs to no mer- 
chant in the colonies. You are but the reflection 
of your master’s prosperity, you rogue, and so 
much the greater need that you look to his inter- 
ests. If the substance is wasted, what will be- 
come of the shadow ? When I get delicate, you 
will sicken ; when I am a-hungered, you will be 
famished; when I die, you may be — ahem — 
Euclid. I leave thee in charge with goods and 
chattels, house and stable, with my character in 
the neighborhood. I am going to the Lust in 
Rust, for a mouthful of better air. Plague and 
fevers ! I believe the people will continue to 
come into this crowded town, until it gets to be 
as pestilent as Rotterdam in the dog-days. You 
have now come to years when a man obtains his 
reflection, boy, and I expect suitable care and dis- 
cretion about the premises, while my back is 
turned. Now, harkee, sirrah : I am not entirely 
pleased with the character of thy company. It 
is not altogether as respectable as becomes the 
confidential servant of a man of a certain station 
in the world. There are thy two cousins, Brom 
and Kobus, who are no better than a couple of 


.blackguards ; and as for the English negro, Dio- 
mede — he is a devil’s imp ! Thou hast the other 
locks at disposal, and,” drawing with visible re- 
luctance the instrument from his pocket, “ here 
is the key of the stable. Not a hoof is to quit it, 
but to go to the pump ; and see that each animal 
has its food to a minute. The devil’s roisterers ! 
a Manhattan negro takes a Flemish gelding for a 
gaunt hound that is never out of breath, and away 
he goes at night, scampering along the highways 
like a Yankee witch switching through the air on 
a broomstick ; but mark me, Master Euclid, I 
have eyes in my head, as thou knowest by bitter 
experience ! D’ye remember, ragamuffin, the 
time when I saw thee, from the Hague, riding the 
beasts, as if the devil spurred them, along the 
dike of Leyden, without remorse as without 
leave? ” 

“ I alway b’rieve some make-mischief tell 
masser dat time,” returned the negro, sulkily, 
though not without doubt. 

“ His own eyes were the tell-tales. If masters 
had no eyes, a pretty world would the negroes 
make of it ! I have got the measure of every 
black heel on the island registered in the big book 
you see me so often looking into, especially on 
Sundays ; and, if either of the tire-legs I have 
named dares to enter my grounds, let him expect 
to pay a visit to the city provost. What do the 
wild-cats mean ? Do they think that the geldings 
were bought in Holland, with charges for break- 
ing in, shipment, insurance, freight, and risk of 
diseases, to have their flesh melted from their ribs 
like a cook’s candle ? ” 

“Ere no’tin’ done in all ’e island, but a color’ 
man do him ! He do a mischief, and he do all a 
work, too ! I won’er what color’ masser t’ink 
war’ Captain Kidd ? ” 

“ Black or white, he was a rank rogue ; and 
you see the end he came to. I warrant you, now, 
that water-thief began his iniquities by riding the 
neighbors’ horses at night. His fate should be a 
warning to every nigger in the colony. The imps 
of darkness ! The English have no such scarcity 
of rogues at home, that they could not spare us 
the pirate to hang up on one of the islands, as a 
scarecrow to the blacks of Manhattan.” 

“Well, I t’ink ’e sight do a white man some 
good, too,” returned Euclid, who had all the per- 
tinacity of a spoiled Dutch negro, singularly 
blended with affection for him in whose service 
he had been born. “ I hear ebbery body say, 
’ere war’ but two color’ man in he ship, and ’em 
both war’ Guinea-born.” 

. “ A modest tongue, thou midnight scamper 1 
look to my geldings. — Here — here are two Dutch 








The orb of day — the morning gun — and Mr. Alderman Van Beverout ! 




ALDERMAN MYNDERT VAN BEVEROUT. 


florins, three stivers, and a Spanish pistareen, for 
thee ; one of the florins is for thy old mother, and 
with the others thou canst lighten tjiy heart in 
the Paus merrymakings— if I hear that either of 
thy rascally cousins, or the English Diomede, has 
put a leg across beast of mine, it will be the worse 
for all Africa ! Famine and skeletons ! here have 
I been seven years trying to fatten the nags, and 
they still look more like weasels than a pair of 
solid geldings.” 

The close of this speech was rather muttered 
in the distance, and by way of soliloquy, than 
actually administered to the namesake of the 
great mathematician. The air of the negro had 
been a little equivocal during the parting admoni- 
tion. There was an evident struggle in his mind 
between an innate love of disobedience and a se- 
cret dread of his master’s means of information. 
So long as the latter continued in sight, the black 
watched his form in doubt ; and, when it had 
turned a corner, he stood at a gaze for a moment 
with a negro on a neighboring stoop ; then both 
shook their heads significantly, laughed aloud, 
and retired. That night the confidential servant 
attended to the interests of his absent master 
with a fidelity and care which proved he felt his 
own existence identified with that of a man who 
claimed so close a right in his person ; and, just 
as the clock struck ten, he and the negro last 
mentioned mounted the sluggish and over-fat- 
tened horses, and galloped as hard as foot 
could be laid to the earth, several miles deeper 
into the island, to attend a frolic at one of the 
usual haunts of the people of their color and con- 
dition. 

Had Alderman Myndert Van Beverout sus- 
pected the calamity which was so soon to succeed 
his absence, it is probable that his mien would 
have been less composed, as he pursued his way 
from his own door, on the occasion named. That 
he had confidence in the virtue of his menaces, 
however, may be inferred from the tranquillity 
which immediately took possession of features 
that were never disturbed without wearing an 
appearance of unnatural effort. The substantial 
burgher was a little turned of fifty ; and an Eng- 
lish wag, who had imported from the mother- 
country a love for the humor of his nation, had 
once, in a conflict of wits before the city council, 
described him to be a man of alliterations. 
When called upon to explain away this breach of 
parliamentary decorum, the punster had got rid 
of the matter by describing his opponent to be 
“ short, solid, and sturdy in stature ; full, flushed 
and funny in face ; and proud, ponderous, and 
pragmatical in propensities.” But, as is usual, in 


7 

all sayings of effort, there was more smartness 
than truth in this description ; though, after mak- 
ing a trifling allowance for the coloring of politi- 
cal rivalry, the reader may receive its physical 
portion as sufficiently descriptive to answer all 
the necessary purposes of this tale. If we add, 
that he was a trader of great wealth and shrewd- 
ness, and a bachelor, we need say no more in this 
stage of the narrative. 

Notwithstanding the early hour at which this 
industrious and flourishing merchant quitted his 
abode, his movement along the narrow streets of 
his native town was measured and dignified. 
More than once he stopped to speak to some fa- 
vorite family-servant, invariably terminating his 
inquiries after the health of the master, by some 
facetious observation adapted to the habits and 
capacity of the slave. From this it would seem, 
that, while he had so exaggerated notions of do- 
mestic discipline, the worthy burgher was far from 
being one who indulged, by inclination, in the 
menaces he has been heard to utter. He had just 
dismissed one of these loitering negroes, when, on 
turning a corner, a man of his own color, for the 
first time that morning, suddenly stood before 
him. The startled citizen made, an involuntary 
movement to avoid the unexpected interview, 
and then, perceiving the difficulty of such a step, 
he submitted with as good a grace as if it had 
been one of his own seeking. 

“ The orb of day — the morning gun — and Mr. 
Alderman Van Beverout ! ” exclaimed the indi- 
vidual encountered. “Such is the order of 
events, at this early hour, on each successive rev- 
olution of our earth.” 

The countenance of the alderman had barely 
time to recover its composure, ere he was required 
to answer to this free and somewhat facetious 
salutation. Uncovering his head, he bowed so 
ceremoniously as to leave the other no reason to 
exult in his pleasantry, as he answered : 

“ The colony has reason to regret the services 
of a governor who can quit his bed so soon. 
That we of business habits stir betimes is quite 
in reason ; but there are those in this town who 
would scarce believe their eyes did they enjoy my 
present happiness.” 

“ Sir, there are many in this colony who have 
great reason to distrust their senses, though none 
can be mistaken in believing they see Alderman 
Van Beverout in a well-employed man. He that 
dealeth in the produce of the beaver must have the 
animal’s perseverance and forethought! Now 
were I a king-at-arms, there should be a conces- 
sion made in thy favor, Myndert, of a shield 
bearing the animal mordant, a mantle of fur, with 


8 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


two Mohawk hunters for supporters, and the mot- 
to, ‘ Industry.’ ” 

“ Or what think you, my lord,” returned the 
other, who did not more than half relish the pleas- 
antry of his companion, “ of a spotless shield for 
a clear conscience, with an open hand for a crest, 
and the motto, ‘ Frugality and Justice ? ’ ” 

“ I like the open hand, though the conceit is 
pretending. I see you would intimate that the 
Yan Beverouts have not need, at this late day, to 
search a herald’s office for honors. I remember, 
now I bethink me, on some occasion to have seen 
their bearings, a windmill, courant; dike, cou- 
lant ; field, vert sprinkled with black cattle — no ! 
then, memory is treacherous ; the morning air is 
pregnant with food for the imagination.” 

“ Which is not a coin to satisfy a creditor, 
my lord,” said the caustic Myndert. 

“Therein has truth been pithily spoken. 
This is an ill-judged step, Alderman Yan Beverout, 
that lets a gentleman out by night, like the ghost 
in ‘ Hamlet,’ to flee into the narrow house with the 
crowing of the cock. The ear of my royal cous- 
in hath been poisoned, worse than was the ear 
of ‘ murdered Denmark,’ or the partisans of 
this Mister Hunter would have little cause to tri- 
umph.” 

“ Is it not possible to give such pledges to those 
who have turned the key, as will enable your 
lordship to apply the antidote ? ” 

The question struck a chord that changed the 
whole manner of the other. His air, which had 
borne the character of a genteel trifler, became 
more grave and dignified ; and notwithstanding 
there was the evidence of a reckless disposition 
in his features, dress, and carriage, his tall and 
not ungraceful form, as he walked slowly onward, 
by the side of the compact alderman, was not 
without much of that insinuating ease and bland- 
ishment which long familiarity with good com- 
pany can give even to the lowest moral worth. 

“ Your question, worthy sir, manifests great 
goodness of heart, and corroborates that reputa- 
tion for generosity the world so freely gives. It 
is true that the queen has been persuaded to 
sign the mandate of my recall, and it is certain 
that Mr. Hunter has the government of the col- 
ony ; but these are facts that might be reversed, 
were I once in a position to approach my kins- 
woman. I do not disclaim certain indiscretions, 
sir ; it would ill become me to deny them, in pres- 
ence of one whose virtue is as severe as that of 
Alderman Yan Beverout. I have my failings ; 
perhaps, as you have just been pleased to inti- 
mate, it would have been better had my motto 
been frugality ; but the open hand, dear sir, is a 


part of the design you will not deny me, either. 
If I have weaknesses, my enemies cannot refuse 
to say that I never yet deserted a friend.” 

“Not having had occasion to tax your friend- 
ship, I shall not be the first one to make the 
charge.” 

“ Your impartiality has come to be a proverb ! 

‘ As honest as Alderman Yan Beverout,’ ‘ as gen- 
erous as Alderman Yan Beverout,’ are terms in 
each man’s mouth ; some say ‘ as rich ’ ” (the 
small blue eye of the burgher twinkled). “ But 
honesty, and riches, and generosity, are of little 
value, without influence. Men should have their 
natural consideration in society. Now is this 
colony rather Dutch than English, and yet, you 
see, how few names are found in the list of the 
Council, that have been known in the province 
half a century ! Here are your Alexanders^ and 
Heathcotes, your Morrises and Kennedies, De Lan- 
ceys and Livingstons, filling the Council and the 
legislative halls ; but we find few of the Yan Rens- 
selaers, Yan Courtlandts, Yan Schuylers, Stuyve- 
sants, Yan Beekmans, and Yan Beverouts, in 
their natural stations. All nations and religions 
have precedency, in the royal favor, over the 
children of the Patriarchs. The Bohemian Felip- 
ses ; the Huguenot De Lanceys, and Bayards, and 
Jays ; the king-hating Morrises and Ludlows — in 
short, all have greater estimation in the eyes of 
government than the most ancient patroon ! ” 

“ This has long and truly been the case. I 
cannot remember when it was otherwise.” 

“ It may not be denied. But it would little 
become political discretion to affect precipitancy 
in the judgment of character. If my own admin- 
istration can be stigmatized with the same ap- 
parent prejudice, it proves the clearer how strong 
is misrepresentation at home. Time was wanting 
to enlighten my mind, and that time has been re- 
fused me. In another year, my worthy sir, the 
Council should have been filled with Yans ! ” 

“ In such a case, my lord, the unhappy con- 
dition in which you are now placed might indeed 
have been avoided.” 

“Is it too late to arrest the evil? It is time 
Anne had been undeceived, and her mind regained. 
There wanteth nothing to such a consummation 
of justice, sir, but opportunity. It touches me to 
the heart, to think that this disgrace should be- 
fall one so near the royal blood ! ’Tis a spot on 
the escutcheon of the crown that all loyal sub- 
jects must feel desirous to efface, and so small an 
effort would effect the object, too, with certain — 
Mr. Alderman Myndert Yan Beverout — ? ” 

“ My lord, late governor,” returned the other, 
observing that his companion hesitated. 


LORD CORNBURY. 


9 


“ What think you of this Hanoverian settle- 
ment ? — Shall a German wear the crown of a 
Plantagenet ? ” 

“It hath been worn by a Hollander.” 

“Aptly answered! Worn, and worn worthi- 
ly! There is affinity between the people, and 
there is reason in that reply. How have I failed 
in wisdom, in not seeking earlier the aid of thy 
advice, excellent sir! Ah, Myndert, there is a 
blessing on the enterprises of all who come of the 
Low Countries ! ” 

“They are industrious to earn, and slow to 
squander.” 

“ That expenditure is the ruin of many a 
worthy subject ! And yet accident — chance — 
fortune — or whatever you may choose to call it, 
interferes nefariously at times with a gentleman’s 
prosperity. I am an adorer of constancy in friend- 
ship, sir, and hold the principle that men should 
aid each other through this dark vale of life. — Mr. 
Alderman Van Beverout — ” 

“ My Lord Cornbury ! ” 

“ I was about to say, that should I quit the 
province without expressing part of the regret I 
feel at not having sooner ascertained the merits 
of its original owners, and your own in particular, 
I should do injustice to sensibilities that are only 
too acute for the peace of him who endures 
them.” 

“ Is ther#, then, hope that your lordship’s 
creditor will relent, or has the earl furnished 
means to open the prison-door ? ” 

“ You use the pleasantest terms, sir ! — but I 
love directness of language above all other quali- 
ties. No doubt the prison-door, as you have so 
clearly expressed it, might be opened, and lucky 
would be the man who should turn the key. I am 
pained when I think of the displeasure of the 
queen, which, sooner or later, will surely visit my 
luckless persecutors. On the other hand, I find re- 
lief in thinking of the favor she will extend to 
those who have proved my friends in such a 
strait. They that wear crowns love not to see 
disgrace befall the meanest of their blood, for 
something of the taint may sully even the ermine 
of majesty. — Mr. Alderman — ?” 

“ My lord ! ” 

“ — How fare the Flemish geldings ? ” 

“Bravely, and many thanks, my lord; the, 
rogues are fat as butter ! There is hope of a 
little rest for the innocent, since business calls me 
to the Lust in Rust. There should be a law, 
lord governor, to gibbet the black that rides a 
beast at night.” 

“ I bethought of some condign punishment 
for so heartless a crime, but there is little hope 


• for it under the administration of this Mr. Hunter. 
■ Yes, sir, were I once more in the presence of my 
royal cousin, there would quickly be an end to 
this delusion, and the colony should be once more 
restored to a healthful state. The men of a gen- 
eration should cease to lord it over the men of a 
century. But we must be wary of letting our 
design, my dear sir, get wind ; it is a truly Dutch 
idea, and the profits, both pecuniary and political, 
should belong to the gentlemen of that descent — 
My dear Van Beverout — ” 

“ My good lord ! ” 

“ Is the blooming Alida obedient ? Trust me, 
there has no family event occurred during my 
residence in the colony, in which I have taken a 
nearer interest than in that desirable connection. 
The wooing of the young Patroon ,of Kinderhook 
is an affair of concern to the province. It is a 
meritorious youth.” 

“With an excellent estate, my lord.” 

“ And a gravity beyond his years.” 

“ I would give a guarantee, at a risk, that 
two-thirds of his income go to increase the capi- 
tal, at the beginning of each season.” 

“ He seems a man to live on air ! ” 

“My old friend, the last patroon, left noble 
assets,” continued the alderman, rubbing his 
hands ; “ besides the manor.” 

“ Which is no paddock.” 

“ It reaches from the Hudson to the line of 
Massachusetts. A hundred thousand acres of 
hill and bottom, and well peopled by frugal Hol- 
landers.” 

“ Respectable in possession, and a mine of 
gold in reversion ! Such men, sir, should be cher- 
ished. We owe it to his station to admit him to 
a share of this our project to undeceive the queen. 
How superior are the claims of such a gentleman 
to the empty pretensions of your Captain Lud- 
low ! ” 

“ He has truly a very good and improving es- 
tate.” 

“ These Ludlows, sir, people that fled the realm 
for plotting against the crown, are offensive to a 
loyal subject. Indeed, too much of this objection 
may be imputed to many in the province, that 
come of English blood. I am sorry to say that 
they are fomenters of discord, disturbers of the 
public mind, and captious disputants about pre- 
rogatives and vested rights. But there is a re- 
pose in the Dutch character which lends it digni- 
ty ! The descendants of the Hollanders are men 
to be counted on ; where we leave them to-day we 
see them to-morrow. As we say in politics, sir, 
we know where to find them. Does it not seem 
.to you particularly offensive that this Captain 


10 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


Ludlow should command the only royal cruiser 
on the station ? ” 

“ I should like it better, my lord, were he to 
serve in Europe,” returned the alderman, glanc- 
ing a look behind him, and lowering his voice. 
“ There was lately a rumor that his ship was in 
truth to be sent among the islands.” 

“ Matters are getting very wrong, most worthy 
sir; and the greater the necessity there should 
be one at court to undeceive the queen. Innova- 
tors should be made to give way to men whose 
names are historical in the colony.” 

“ ’Twould be no worse for her majesty’s credit.” 

“ ’Twould be another jewel in her crown ! 
Should this Captain Ludlow actually marry your 
niece, the family would altogether change its 
character — I have the worst memory — thy moth- 
er, Myndert, was a — a — ” 

“ The pious woman was a Yan Busser.” 

“ The union of thy sister with the Huguenot 
then reduces the fair Alida to the quality of a 
half-blood. The Ludlow connection would de- 
stroy the leaven of the race !, I think the man is 
penniless.” 

“ I cannot say that, my lord, for I would not 
willingly injure the credit of my worst enemy; 
but, though wealthy, he is far from having the 
estate of the young Patroon of Kinderhook.” 

“ He should indeed be sent into the Indies. — 
Myndert — ” 

“ My lord ! ” 

“ It would be unjust to my sentiments in fa- 
vor of Mr. Oloff Yan Staats, were we to exclude 
him from the advantages of our project. This 
much shall I exact from your friendship, in his 
favor; the necessary sum may be divided, in 
moieties, between you; a common bond shall 
render the affair compact; and then, as we shall 
be masters of our own secret, there can be little 
doubt of the prudence of our measures. The 
amount is written in this bit of paper.” 

“ Two thousand pounds, my lord ! ” 

“Pardon me, my dear sir; not a penny more 
than one for each of you. Justice to Yan Staats 
requires that you let him int'o the affair. Were 
it not for the suit with your niece, I should take 
the young gentleman with me, to push his for- 
tunes at court.” 

“ Truly, my lord, this greatly exceeds my 
means. The high prices of furs the past season, 
and delays in returns, have placed a seal upon 
our silver — ” 

“ The premium would be high.” 

“ Coin is getting so scarce daily, that the face 
of a Carolus is almost as great a stranger as the 
face of a debtor — ” 


“ The returns certain.” 

“While one’s creditors meet him at every 
corner — ” 

“ The concern would be altogether Dutch.” 

“ And last advices from Holland tell us to re- 
serve our gold for some extraordinary movements 
in the commercial world.” 

“ Mr. Alderman Myndert Yan Beverout ! ” 

“ My Lord Yiscount Combury — ” 

“ Plutus preserve thee, sir — but have a care ; 
though I scent the morning air, and must return, 
it is not forbid to tell the secrets of my prison- 
house. There is one in yonder cage who whis- 
pers that the Skimmer of the Seas is on the 
coast ! Be wary, worthy burgher, or the second 
part of the tragedy of Kidd may yet be enacted 
in these seas.” 

“ I leave such transactions to my superiors,” 
retorted the alderman, with another stiff and cer- 
emonious bow. “Enterprises that are said to 
have occupied the Earl of Bellamont, Governor 
Fletcher, and my Lord Combury, are above the 
ambition of an humble merchant.” 

“ Adieu, tenacious sir ; quiet thine impatience 
for the extraordinary Dutch movements ! ’’ said 
Cornbury, affecting to laugh, though he secretly 
felt the sting the other had applied, since com- 
mon report implicated not only him, but his two 
official predecessors, in several of the lawless pro- 
ceedings of the American buccaneers ; “ be vigi- 
lant, or la demoiselle Barberie will give another 
cross to the purity of the stagnant pool ! ” 

The bows that were exchanged were strictly 
in character. The alderman was unmoved, rigid, 
and formal, while his companion could not for- 
get his ease of manner, even at a moment of so 
much vexation. Foiled in an effort that nothing 
but his desperate condition, and nearly desperate 
character, could have induced him to attempt, the 
degenerate descendant of the virtuous Clarendon 
walked toward his place of confinement with the 
step of one who assumed a superiority over his 
fellows, and yet with a mind so indurated by ha- 
bitual depravity, as to have left it scarcely the trace I 
of a dignified or virtuous quality. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles ; 

His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate.” 

Two Gentlemen of Veeona. 

The philosophy of Alderman Yan Beverout 
was not easily disturbed. Still there was a play 
of the nether muscles of the face, which might be 


OLD CUPID. 


11 


construed into self-complacency at his victory, 
while a certain contraction of those which con- 
trolled the expression of the forehead seemed to 
betray a full consciousness of the imminent risk 
he had run. The left hand was thrust into a 
pocket, where it diligently fingered the provision 
of Spanish coin without which the merchant never 
left his abode ; while the other struck the cane it 
held on the pavement, with the force of a reso- 
lute and decided man. In this manner he pro- 
ceeded in his walk for several minutes longer, 
shortly quitting the lower streets, to enter one that 
ran along the ridge which crowned the land in that 
quarter of the island. Here he soon stopped be- 
fore the door of a house which, in that provincial 
town, had altogether the air of a patrician dwell- 
ing. 

Two false gables, each of which was sur- 
mounted by an iron weathercock, intersected the 
roof of this building, and the high and narrow 
stoop was built of the red freestone of the coun- 
try. The material of the edifice itself was, as 
usual, the small, hard brick of Holland, painted a 
delicate crcam-color. 

A single blow of the massive glittering knock- 
er brought a servant to the door. The prompti- 
tude with which this summons was answered 
showed that, notwithstanding the early hour, the 
alderman was an expected guest. The counte- 
nance of him who acted as porter betrayed no 
surprise when he saw the person who applied for 
admission, and every movement of the black de- 
noted preparation and readiness for his reception. 
Declining his invitation to enter, however, the 
alderman placed his back against the iron railing 
of the stoop, and opened a discourse with the ne- 
gro. The latter was aged, with a grizzled head, 
a nose that was levelled nearly to the plane of his 
face, features that were wrinkled and confused, 
and with a form which, though still solid, was 
bending with its load of years. 

“Brave cheer to thee, old Cupid!” com- 
menced the burgher, in the hearty and cordial man- 
ner with which the masters of that period were 
wont to address their indulged slaves. “ A clear 
conscience is a good nightcap, and you look 
bright as the morning sun ! I hope my friend 
the young patroon has slept sound as yourself, 
and that he has shown his face already to prove 
it.” 

The negro answered with the slow, clipping 
manner that characterized his condition and 
years. 

“He’m werry wakeful, Masser APerman. I 
t’ink he no sleep half he time lately. All he 
a’tiverty and wiwacerty gone, an’ he do no single 


t’ing but smoke. A gentle’um who smoke alway, 
Masser APerman, get to be a melercholy man at 
last. I do t’ink ’ere be one young lady in York 
who be he deat’ some time ! ” 

“ We’ll find the means to get the pipe out of 
his mouth,” said the other, looking askance at 
the black, as if to express more than he uttered. 

Romance and pretty girls play the deuse with 
our philosophy in youth, as thou knowest by ex- 
perience, old Cupid.” 

“ I no good for any t’ing dat-a-way now, not’- 
ing,” calmly returned the black. “I see a one 
time, when few color’ men in York hab more re- 
spect among a fair sec’, but dat a great while gone 
by. Now de modder of your Euclid, Masser 
APerman, war’ a pretty woman, do’ she hab but 
poor conduc’. Den a war’ young herself, and I 
use to visit at de al’erman’s fadder’s ; afore a Eng- 
lish come, and when ole patroon war’ a young 
man. Golly ! I great affection for Euclid, do’ a 
young dog nebber come a near me ! ” 

He s a blackguard ! My back is no sooner 
turned than the rascal’s atop of one of his mas- 
ter’s geldings.” 

“He’m werry young, Master Myn’ert; no one 
get wis’om ’fore a gray hair.” 

“ He’s forty, every minute ; and the rogue gets 
impudence with his years. Age is a reverend and 
respectable condition, when it brings gravity and 
thought ; but, if a young fool be tiresome, an old 
fool is contemptible. I’ll warrant me, you never 
were so thoughtless, or so heartless, Cupid, as to 
ride an overworked beast at night.” 

“Well, I get pretty ole, Masser Myn’ert, an’ 

I forget all he do when a young man. But here 
be ’e patroon, who know how to tell ’e al’erman 
such t’ing better than a poor color’ slave.” 

A fair rising and a lucky day to you, pa- 
troon,” cried the alderman, saluting a large, slow- 
moving, gentlemanly-looking young man of five- 
and-twenty, who advanced, with the gravity of 
one of twice that number of years, from the inte- 
rior of the house toward its outer door. “ The 
winds are bespoken, and here is as fine a day as 
ever shone out of a clear sky, whether it came 
from the pure atmosphere of Holland, or of Old 
England itself. Colonies and patronage ! If the 
people on the other side of the ocean had more 
faith in Mother Nature, and less opinion of them- 
selves, they would find it very tolerable breathing in 
the plantations. But the conceited rogues are 
like the man who blew the bellows, and fancied 
he made the music ; and there is never a hobbling 
imp of them all, but he believes he is straighter 
and sounder than the best in the colonies. Here 
is our bay, now, as smooth as if it were shut in 


12 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


with twenty dikes, and the voyage will be as 
safe as if it were made on a canal.” 

“ Dat werry well, if ’a do it,” grumbled Cupid, 
who busied himself affectionately about the per- 
son of his master; “It’ink it alway better to 
travel on ’e land, when a gentle’um own so much 
as Massa Oloff. Der’ war’ ’e time a ferry-boat go 
down, wid crowd of people ; and nobody eber 
come up again to say how he feel.” 

“ Here is some mistake,” interrupted the al- 
derman, throwing an uneasy glance at his young 
friend. “I count four-and-fifty years, and re- 
member no such calamity.” 

“He’m werry sing’lar how a young folk do 
forget ! ’Ere war’ drown six people in dat werry 
boat. A two Yankee, a Canada Frenchman, and 
a poor woman from a Jarseys. Eberybody war’ 
werry sorry for a poor woman from a Jerseys ! ” 

“ Thy tally is false, Master Cupid,” promptly 
rejoined the alderman, who was rather expert at 
figures. “ Two Yankees, a Frenchman, and your 
Jersey woman, make but four.” 

“Well, den, I s’pose ’ere war’ one Yankee; 
but I know all war’ drown, for ’e gubenor lose 
he fine coach-horses in dat werry boat.” 

“ The old fellow is right, sure enough ; for I 
remember the calamity of the horses, as if it were 
but yesterday. But Death is monarch of the 
earth, and none of us may hope to escape his 
scythe when the appointed hour shall come ! 
Here are no nags to lose to-day ; and we may 
commence our voyage, patroon, with cheerful 
faces and light hearts. Shall we proceed ? ” 

Oloff Van Staats, or the Patroon of Kinder- 
hook, as by the courtesy of the colony he was 
commonly termed, did not want for personal firm- 
ness. On the contrary, like most of those who 
were descended from the Hollanders, he was rath- 
er distinguished for steadiness in danger and ob- 
stinacy in resistance. The little skirmish which 
had just taken place between his friend and his 
slave, had proceeded from their several apprehen- 
sions ; the one feeling a sort of parental interest 
in his safety, and the other having particular rea- 
sons for wishing him to persevere in his intention 
to embark, instead of any justifiable cause in the 
character of the young proprietor himself. A 
sign to the boy who bore his portmanteau, settled 
the controversy; when Mr. Yan Staats intimated 
his readiness to move. 

Cupid lingered on the stoop until his master 
had turned a corner ; then, shaking his head with 
all the misgivings of an ignorant and supersti- 
tious mind, he drove the young fry of blacks, 
who thronged the door, into the house, closing 
all after him with scrupulous c$re. How far the 


presentiment of the black was warranted by the 
event, will be seen in the course of the narrative. 

The wide avenue in which Oloff Yan Staats 
dwelt was but a few hundred yards in length. 

It terminated, at one end, with the fortress, and 
at the other it was crossed by a high stockade, 
which bore the name of the city walls ; a defence 
that was provided against any sudden irruption 
of the Indians, who then hunted, and even dwelt, 
in some numbers, in the lower counties of the col- 
ony. 

It requires great familiarity with the growth 
of the town to recognize, in this description, the 
noble street that now runs for a league through 
the centre of the island. From this avenue, which 
was then, as it is still, called the Broadway, our 
adventurers descended into a lower quarter of 
the town, holding free converse by the way. 

“ That Cupid is a negro to keep the roof on a 
house, in its master’s absence, patroon,” ob- 
served the alderman, soon after they had left the 
stoop. “ He looks like a padlock ; and one might 
sleep without a dream, with such a guardian near 
his dwelling. I wish I had brought the honest 
fellow the key of my stable.” 

“ I have heard my father say that the keys of 
his own were always better near his own pillow,” 
coolly returned the proprietor of a hundred thou- 
sand acres. 

“ Ah, the curse of Cain ! It is needless to 
look for the fur of a marten on the back of a 
cat. • But, Mr. Yan Staats, while walking to your 
door this morning, it was my fortune to meet the 
late governor, who is permitted by his creditors 
to take the air at an hour when he thinks the 
eyes of the impertinent will be shut. I believe, 
patroon, you were so lucky as to get back your 
moneys before the royal displeasure visited the 
man ? ” 

“ I was so lucky as never to trust him.” 

“ That was better still, for it would have been 
a barren investment — great jeopardy to principal, 
and no return. But we had discourse of various 
interests ; and, among others, something was haz- 
arded concerning your amatory pretensions to my 
niece.” 

“Neither the wishes of Oloff Yan Staats, nor j 
the inclinations of la belle Barberie, are a subject 
for the governor in council,” said the Patroon of 
Kinderhook, stiffly. 

“ Nor was it thus treated. The viscount spoke 
me fair, and, had he not pushed the matter be- 
yond discretion, we might have come to happier 
conclusions.” 

“ I am glad that there was some restraint in 
j the discourse.” 


OLOFF VAN ST A A TS, 


13 


“ The m an certainly exceeded reason, for he 
led the conference into personalities that no pru- 
dent man could relish. Still, he said it was pos- 
sible that the Coquette might yet be ordered for 
service among the islands.” 

It has been said that Oloff Tan Staats was a 
fair, personable young man of vast stature, and 
with much of the air of a gentleman of his coun- 
try ; for, though a British subject, he was rather 
a Hollander in feelings, habits, and opinions. He 
colored at the allusion to the presence of his 
known rival, though his companion was at a loss 
to discover whether pride or vexation was at the 
bottom of his emotion. 

“ If Captain Ludlow prefer a cruise in the 
Indies to duty on this coast, I hope he may 
obtain his wish,” was the cautious answer. 

“Your liberal man enjoys a sounding name, 
and an empty coffer,” observed the alderman, dryly. 
“ To me it seems that a petition to the admiral 
to send so meritorious an officer on service where 
he may distinguish himself, should deserve his 
thanks. The freebooters are playing the devil’s 
game with the sugar-trade, and even the French 
are getting troublesome, farther south.” 

“ He has certainly the reputation of an active 
cruiser.” 

“ Blixum and philosophy ! If you wish to 
succeed with Alida, patroon, you must put more 
briskness into the adventure. The girl has a 
cross of the Frenchman in her temper, and none 
of your deliberations and taciturnities will gain 
the day. This visit to the Lust in Rust is Cupid’s 
own handiwork, and I hope to see you both re- 
turn to town as amicable as the stadtholder and the 
States-General, after a sharp struggle for the year’s 
subsidy has been settled by a compromise.” 

“ The success of this suit is the affair nearest 
my — ” The young man paused as if surprised at 
his own communicativeness ; and, taking advan- 
tage of the haste in which his toilet had been 
made, he thrust a hand into his vest, covering 
with its broad palm a portion of the human frame 
which poets do not describe as the seat of the 
passions. 

“ If you mean stomach, sir, you will not have 
reason to be disappointed,” retorted the alderman, 
a little more severely than was usual with one so 
cautious. “ The heiress of Myndert Yan Bever- 
out will not be a penniless bride, and Monsieur 
Barberie did not close the books of life without 
taking good care of the balance-sheet — but yon- 
der are those devils of ferrymen quitting the wharf 
without us! — Scamper ahead, Brutus, and tell 
them to wait the legal minute. The rogues are 
never exact; sometimes starting before I am 


ready, and sometimes keeping me waiting in the 
sun, as if I were no better than a dried dunfish. 
Punctuality is the soul of business, and one of my 
habits does not like to be ahead nor behind his 
time.” 

In this manner the worthy burgher, who 
would have been glad to regulate the movements 
of others, on all occasions, a good deal by his 
own, vented his complaints, while he and his 
companion hurried on to overtake the slow-mov- 
ing boat in which they were to embark. A brief 
description of the scene will not be without inter- 
est to a generation that may be termed modern 
in reference to the time in which we write. 

A deep, narrow creek penetrated the island, at 
this point, for the distance of a quarter of a mile. k 
Each of its banks had a row of buildings, as the 
houses line a canal in the cities of Holland. As 
the natural course of the inlet was necessarily re- 
spected, the street had taken a curvature not un- 
like that of a new moon. The houses were ultra- 
Dutch, being low, angular, fastidiously neat, and 
all erected with their gables to the street. Each 
had its ugly and inconvenient entrance, termed a 
stoop, its vane or weather-cock, its dormer-win- 
dows, and its graduated battlement-walls. Near 
the apex of one of the latter a little iron crane 
projected into the street. A small boat of the 
same metal swung from its end — a sign that the 
building to which it was appended was the ferry- 
house. 

An inherent love of artificial and confined 
navigation had probably induced the burghers to 
select this spot as the place whence so many craft 
departed from the town ; since it is certain that 
the two rivers could have furnished divers points 
more favorable for such an object, inasmuch as 
they possess the advantage of wide and unob- 
structed channels. 

Fifty blacks were already in the street, dipping 
their brooms into the creek, and flourishing water 
over the sidewalks, and on the fronts of the low 
edifices. This light but daily duty was relieved 
by clamorous collisions of wit, and by shouts of 
merriment, in which the whole street would join, 
as with one joyous and reckless movement of the 
spirit. 

The language of this light-hearted and noisy 
race was Dutch, already corrupted by English 
idioms, and occasionally by English words — a 
system of change that has probably given rise to 
an opinion, among some of the descendants of 
the earlier colonists that the latter tongue is 
merely a paiois of the former. This opinion, 
which so much resembles that certain well-read 
English scholars entertained of the plagiarisms 


14 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


of the Continental writers, when they first began 
to dip into their works, is not strictly true ; since 
the language of England has probably bestowed 
as much on the dialect of which we speak, as it 
has ever received from the purer sources of the 
school of Holland. Here and there a grave 
burgher, still in his nightcap, might be seen with 
a head thrust out of an upper window, listening 
to these barbarisms of speech, and taking note 
of all the merry jibes that flew from mouth to 
mouth with an indomitable gravity that no levity 
of those beneath could undermine. 

As the movement of the ferry-boat was neces- 
sarily slow, the alderman and his companion were 
enabled to step into it before the fasts were 
thrown aboard. The periagua, as the craft was 
called, partook of a European and an American 
character. It possessed the length, narrowness, 
and clean bow of the canoe, from which its name 
was derived, with the flat bottom and lee-boards of 
a boat constructed for the shallow waters of the 
Low Countries. Twenty years ago vessels of this 
description abounded in our rivers, and even now 
their two long and unsupported masts, and high, 
narrow-headed sails are daily seen bending like 
reeds to the breeze, and dancing lightly over the 
billows of the bay. There is a variety of the class 
of a size and pretension altogether superior to 
that just mentioned, which deserves a place 
among the most picturesque and striking boats 
that float. He who has had occasion to navigate 
the southern shore of the sound must have often 
seen the vessel to which we allude. It is distin- 
guished by its great length, and masts which, 
naked of cordage, rise from the hull like two tall 
and faultless trees. When the eye runs over the 
daring height of canvas, the noble confidence of 
the rig, and sees the comparatively vast machine 
handled with ease and grace by the dexterity of 
two fearless and expert mariners, it excites some 
such admiration as that which springs from the 
view of a severe tempi q of antiquity. The naked- 
ness and simplicity of the construction, coupled 
with the boldness and rapidity of its movements, 
impart to the crafc an air of grandeur that its or- 
dinary uses would not give reason to expect. 

Though, in some respects, of singularly aquat- 
ic habits, the original colonists of New York 
were far less adventurous, as mariners, than their 
present descendants. A passage across the bay 
did not often occur in the tranquil lives of the 
burghers ; and it is still within the memory of 
man, that a voyage between the two principal 
towns of the State was an event to excite the 
solicitude of friends, and the anxiety of the trav- 
eller. The perils of the Tappaan Zee, as one of 


the wider reaches of the Hudson is still termed, 
was often dealt with by the good wives of the 
colony, in their relations of marvels ; and she who 
had oftenest encountered them unharmed, was 
deemed a sort of marine amazon. 


CHAPTER III. 

“ I have great comfort from this fellow ; methinks he 
hath no drowning mark upon him ; his complexion is per- 
fect gallows.” 

Tempest. 

It has been said that the periagua was in 
motion before our two adventurers succeeded in 
stepping on board. The arrival of the Patroon 
of Kinderhook and of Alderman Yan Beverout 
was expected, and the schipper had taken his de- 
parture at the precise moment of the turn in the 
current, in order to show, with a sort of pretend- 
ing independence which has a peculiar charm for 
men in his situation, that “time and tide wait for 
no man.” Still there were limits to his decision ; 
for, while he put the boat in motion, especial care 
was taken that the circumstance should not sub- 
ject a customer so important and constant as the 
alderman, to any serious inconvenience. When 
he and his friend had embarked, the painters 
were thrown aboard, and the crew of the ferry- 
boat began to set their vessel, in earnest, toward 
the mouth of the creek. During these move- 
ments, a young negro was seated in the bow of 
the periagua, with his legs dangling, one on each 
side of the cut- water, forming no bad apology for 
a figure-head. He held a conch to his mouth, and 
with his two glossy cheeks inflated like those of 
Eolus, and his dark, glittering eyes expressing the 
delight he found in drawing sounds from the 
shell, he continued to give forth the signal for 
departure. 

“ Put up the conch, thou bawler ! ” cried the 
alderman, giving the younker a rap on his naked 
poll, in passing, with the end of his cane, that 
might have disturbed the harmony of one less 
bent on clamor. “ A thousand windy trumpeters 
would be silence itself, compared to such a pair of 
lungs ! — How now, Master Schipper, is this your 
punctuality, to start before your passengers are 
ready ? ” 

The undisturbed boatman, without removing 
the pipe from his mouth, pointed to the bubbles 
on the water which were already floating out- 
ward, a certain evidence that the tide was on the 
ebb. 

“ I care nothing for your ins and outs, your 
ebbs and floods,” returned the alderman, in heat. 


THE ALDERMAN’S NIECE. 


15 


" There is no better timepiece than the leg and 
eye of a punctual man. It is no more pleasant 
to go before one is ready, than to tarry when all 
business is done. Harkee, Master Schipper, you 
are not the only navigator in this bay, nor is 
your craft the swiftest that was ever launched. 
Have a care ; though an acquiescing man by na- 
ture, I know how to encourage an opposition, 
when the public good seriously calls for my sup- 
port.” 

To the attack on himself, the schipper was 
stoically indifferent ; but to impeach the quali- 
ties of the periagua was to attack one who de- 
pended solely on his eloquence for vindication. 
Removing his pipe, therefore, he rejoined on. the 
alderman, with that sort of freedom that the stur- 
dy Hollanders never failed to use to all offend- 
ers, regardless alike of rank or personal quali- 
ties. 

“Der windgall and alderman,” he growled, 
in the dialect of the country ; “ I should be glad 
to see the boat in York Bay that can show the 
Milkmaid her stern ! The mayor and council- 
men had better order the tide to turn when they 
please ; and then, as each man will think of his 
own pleasure, a pretty set of whirlpools they will 
give us in the harbor ! ” 

The schipper, having delivered himself of his 
sentiments to this effect, resumed his pipe, like a 
man who felt he deserved the meed of victory, 
whether he were to receive it or not. 

“It is useless to dispute with an obstinate 
man,” muttered the alderman, making his way 
through vegetable-baskets, butter-tubs, and all 
the garniture of a market-boat, to the place occu- 
pied by his niece, in the stern-sheets. “ Good- 
morrow to thee, Alida dear; early rising will 
make a flower-garden of thy cheeks, and the 
fresh air of the Lust in Rust will give even thy 
roses a deeper bloom.” 

The mollified burgher then saluted the cheek 
whose bloom had been deepened by his remark, 
with a warmth that showed he was not with- 
out natural affection ; touched his hat, in return 
for a low bow that he received from an aged 
white man-servant, in a clean but ancient livery ; 
and nodded to a young negress, whose second- 
hand finery sufficiently showed she was a person- 
al attendant of the heiress. 

A second glance at Alida de Barb6rie was 
scarcely necessary to betray her mixed descent. 
From her Norman father, a Huguenot of the 
petite noblesse, she had inherited her raven hair, 
the large, brilliant, coal-black eyes, in which wild- 
ness was singularly relieved by sweetness, a clas- 
sical and faultless profile, and a form which was 


both taller and more flexible than commonly fell 
to the lot of the damsels of Holland. From her 
mother, la belle Barberie, as the maiden was of- 
ten playfully termed, had received a skin fair and 
spotless as the flower of France, and a bloom 
which rivalled the rich tints of an evening sky 
in her native land. Some of the embonpoint, for 
which the sister of the alderman was a little re- 
markable, had descended also to her fairer 
daughter. In Alida, however, this peculiarity did 
not exceed the fulness Which became her years, 
rounding her person and softening the outlines of 
her form, rather than diminishing its ease and 
grace. These personal advantages were embel- 
lished by a neat but modest travelling-habit, a lit- 
tle beaver that was shaded by a cluster of droop- 
ing feathers, and a mien that, under the embar- 
rassment of her situation, preserved the happi- 
est medium between modesty and perfect self, 
possession. 

When Alderman Yan Beverout joined this 
fair creature, in whose future happiness he was 
fully justified in taking the deep interest which 
he has betrayed in some of the opening scenes of 
this volume, he found her engaged in a courteous 
discourse with the young man, who was general- 
ly considered as the one, among the numerous 
pretenders to her favor, who was most likely to 
succeed. Had other cause been wanting, this 
sight alone would have been sufficient to restore 
his good-humor ; and, making a place for himself, 
by quietly dispossessing Francis, the domestic 
of his niece, the persevering burgher endeavored 
to encourage an intercourse that he had reason 
to think must terminate in the result he both 
meditated and desired. 

In the present effort, however, the alderman 
failed. There is a feeling which universally per- 
vades landsmen and landswomen, when they first 
embark on an element to which they are stran- 
gers, that ordinarily shuts their mouths and ren- 
ders them meditative. In the older and more 
observant travellers, it is observation and compari- 
son ; while with the younger and more suscepti- 
ble, it is very apt to take the character of senti- 
ment. Without stopping to analyze the cause or 
the consequences, in the instance of the patroon 
and la belle Barb6rie it will be sufficient to state 
that, in spite of all the efforts of the worthy 
burgher, who had navigated the sluggish creek 
too often to be the subject of any new emotions, 
his youthful companions gradually grew silent and 
thoughtful. Though a celibate in his own per- 
son, Myndert had not now to learn that the infant 
god as often does his mischief through this qui- 
et agency as in any other manner. He became, 


16 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


therefore, mute in his turn, watching the slow 
movement of the periagua with as much assiduity 
as if he saw his own image on the water. 

A quarter of an hour of this characteristic, 
and it is to be inferred agreeable navigation, 
brought the boat to the mouth of the inlet. Here 
a powerful effort forced her into the tide’s-way, and 
she might be said to put forth on her voyage. 
But while the black crew were trimming the sails, 
and making the other necessary preparations for 
departure, a voice was heard hailing them from 
the shore, with an order rather than a request, 
that they would stay their movements. 

“ Hilloa, the periagua ! ” it cried. “ Haul over 
your head-sheet, and jam the tiller down into the 
lap of that comfortable-looking old gentleman. 
Come ; bear a hand, my hummers ! or your race- 
horse of a craft will get the bit into its mouth, and 
run away with you.” 

This summons produced a pause in the move- 
ments of the crew.. After regarding each other, 
in surprise and admiration, the watermen drew 
the head-sheet over, put the helm a-lee, without 
however invading the lap of the alderman, and the 
boat became stationary, at the distance of a few 
rods from the shore. While the new passenger 
was preparing to come off in a yawl, those who 
awaited his movements had leisure to examine his 
appearance, and to form their different surmises 
concerning his character. 

It is scarcely necessary to say that the stran- 
ger was a son of the ocean. He was of a firmly 
knit and active frame, standing exactly six feet 
in his stockings. The shoulders, though square, 
were compact, the chest full and high, the limbs 
round, neat, and muscular — the whole indicating 
a form in which strength and activity were ap- 
portioned with the greatest accuracy. A small 
bullet head was set firmly on its broad foundation, 
and it was thickly covered with a mass of brown 
hair that was already a little grizzled. The face 
was that of a man of thirty, and it was worthy of 
the frame, being manly, bold, decided, and rather 
handsome ; though it expressed little more than 
high daring, perfect coolness, some obstinacy, 
and a certain degree of contempt for others, that 
its owner did not always take the trouble to con- 
ceal. The color was a rich, deep, and uniform 
red, such as much exposure is apt to give to 
men whose complexions are by nature light and 
florid. 

The dress of the stranger was quite as remark- 
able as his person. He wore a short pea-jacket, 
cut tight and tastefully ; a little, low, and rakish 
cap, and full bell-mouthed trousers, all in a spot- 
lessly white duck ; a material well adapted to the 


season and the climate. The first was made with- 
out buttons, affording an apology for the use of a 
rich India shawl, that belted his body and kept 
the garment tight to his frame. Faultlessly clean 
linen appeared through the opening above, and a 
collar of the same material fell over the gay ban- 
danna, which was thrown, with a single careless 
turn, around bis throat. The latter was a manu- 
facture then little known in Europe, and its use 
was almost entirely confined to seamen of the 
long voyage. One of its ends was suffered to 
blow about in the wind, but the other was brought 
down with care over the chest, where it was con- 
fined, by springing the blade of a small knife with 
an ivory handle, in a manner to confine the silk 
to the linen ; a sort of breast-pin that is even now 
much used by mariners. If we add that light 
canvas slippers, with foul-anchors worked in 
worsted upon their insteps, covered his feet, we 
shall say all that is necessary of his attire. 

The appearance of one, of the air and dress 
we have just described, excited a strong sensation 
among the blacks who scrubbed the stoops and 
pavements. He was closely attended to the place j 
where he hailed the periagua, by four or five 
loungers, who studied his manner and movements 
with the admiration that men of their class sel- 
dom fail to bestow on those who bear about them 
the evidence of having passed lives of adventure, 
and perhaps of hardship and daring. Beckoning 
to one of these idlers to follow him, the hero of 
the India shawl stepped into an empty boat, and 
casting loose its fast, he sculled the light yawl 
toward the craft which was awaiting his arrival. 
There was, in truth, something in the reckless i 
air, the decision, and the manly attitudes of so 
fine a specimen of a seaman, that might have at- 
tracted notice from those who were more prac- 
tised in the world than the little crowd of admir- 
ers he left behind him. With an easy play of 
wrist and elbow, he caused the, yawl to glide 
ahead like some indolent marine animal swim- 
ming through its element, and as he stood, firm 
as a planted statue, with a foot on each gunwale, 
there was much of that confidence created by his 
steadiness, that one acquires by viewing the re- j 
peated and successful efforts of a skilful rope- i 
dancer. When the yawl reached the side of the 
periagua, he dropped a small Spanish coin into 
the open palm of the negro, and sprang on the 
side of the latter, with an exertion of muscle 
that sent the little boat he quitted half-way back 
toward the shore, leaving the frightened black to 
steady himself in his rocking tenement, in the 
best manner he could. 

The tread and posture of the stranger, when 




With an easy play of wrist and elbow, he caused the yawl to glide ahead. 




A STRANGER. 


17 


he gained the half-deck of the periagua, were 
finely nautical, and confident to audacity. He 
■' seemed to analyze the half-maritime character of 
the crew and passengers at a glance, and to feel 
j that sort of superiority over his companions 
which men of his profession were then a little 
too wont to entertain toward those whose ambi- 
| tion could be bounded by terra Jirma. His eye 
I turned upward at the simple rig and modest 
1 sails of the periagua, while his upper lip curled 
with the knowing expression of a critic. Then 
kicking the fore-sheet clear of its cleet, and suf- 
I fering the sail to fill, he stepped from one butter- 
| tub to another, making a stepping-stone of the 
lap of a countryman by the way, and alighted in 
| the stern-sheets, in the midst of the party of 
Alderman Van Beverout, with the agility and 
! fearlessness of a feathered Mercury. With a 
) coolness that did infinite credit to his powers for 
j commanding, his next act was to dispossess the 
' amazed schipper of. the helm, taking the tiller 
into his own hands with as much composure as 
if he were the every-day occupant of*the post. 
| When he saw that the boat was beginning to move 
I through the water, he found leisure to bestow 
some observation on his fellow-voyagers. The 
first that met his bold and reckless eye was Fran- 
§oois, the domestic of Alida. 

“ If it come to blow in squalls, commodore,” 
iobserved the intruder, with a gravity that half 
deceived the attentive Frenchman, while he point- 
ed to the bag in which the latter wore his hair, 
r you’ll be troubled to carry your broad pennant. 
But so experienced an officer has not put to sea 
without having a storm-cue in readiness for foul 
weather.” 

The valet did not, or affected not to under- 
stand the allusion, maintaining an air of dignified 
; but silent superiority. 

“ The gentleman is in a foreign service, and does 
not understand an English mariner ! The worst 
that can come, after all, of too much top-hamper 
is to cut away, and let it drift with the scud. — 
May I make bold to ask, judge, if the courts have 
done any thing of late concerning the freebooters 
among the islands ? ” 

“ I have not the honor to bear her majesty’s 
commission,” coldly returned Yan Staats of Kin- 
derhook, to whom this question had been hardily 
put. 

“ The best navigator is sometimes puzzled by 
a hazy observation, and many an old seaman has 
taken a fog-bank for solid ground. Since you 
are not in the courts, sir, I wish you joy ; for it is 
running among shoals to be cruising there, wheth- 
er as judge or suitor. One is never fairly snug 
2 


and land-locked while in company of a lawyer, 
and yet the devil himself cannot always give the 
sharks a good offing. — A pretty sheet of water, 
friends ; and one as snug as rotten cables and 
foul wipds can render desirable is this bay of 
York.” 

“ You are a mariner of the long voyage,” re- 
turned the patroon, unwilling that Alida should 
not believe him equal to bandying wits with the 
stranger. 

“Long or short; Calcutta or Cape Cod; 
dead-reckoning, eyesight, or star-gazing ; all’s one 
to your real dolphin. The shape of the coast, 
between Fundy and the Horn, is as familiar to 
my eye as an admirer to this pretty young lady ; 
and as to the other shore, I have run it down often- 
er than the commodore here has ever set his pen- 
nant, blow high or blow low. A cruise like this is 
a Sunday in my navigation ; though I dare say you 
took leave of the wife, blessed the children, over- 
hauled the will, and sent to ask a good word from 
the priest, before you came aboard ? ” 

“Had these ceremonies been observed, the 
danger would not have been increased,” said the 
young patroon, anxious to steal a glance at la 
belle Barberie, though his timidity caused him, 
in truth, to look the other way. “ One is never 
nearer danger, for being prepared to meet it.” 

“ True ; we must all die when the reckoning 
is out. Hang or drown — gibbet or bullet clears 
the world of a great deal of rubbish, or the decks 
would get to be so littered that the vessel could 
not be worked. The last cruise is the longest 
of all ; and honest papers, with a clean bill of 
health, may help a man into port, when he is 
past keeping the open sea. How now, Schipper, 
what lies are floating about the docks this morn- 
ing ? when did the last Albanyman get his tub 
down the river ? or whose gelding has been rid- 
den to death in chase of a witch ? ” 

“ The devil’s babes ! ” muttered the alderman, 
“ there’s no want of roisterers to torment such 
innocents ! ” 

“ Have the buccaneers taken to praying, or 
does their trade thrive in this heel of the war ? ” 
continued the mariner of the India shawl, disre- 
garding the complaint of the burgher. “ The 
times are getting heavy for men of metal, as may 
be seen by the manner in which yon cruiser wears 
out her ground-tackle, instead of trying the open 
sea. May I spring every spar I carry, but I 
would have the boat out, and give her an airing 
before to-morrow, if the queen would condescend 
to put your humble servant in charge of the craft ! 
The man lies there at his anchors as if he had a 
good freight of real Hollands in his hold, and was 


18 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


waiting for a few bales of beaver-skins to barter 
for his strong waters.” 

As the stranger coolly expressed his opinion 
of her majesty’s ship Coquette, he rolled his 
glance over the persons of his companions, suf- 
fering it to rest for a moment, with a secret sig- 
nificance, on the steady eye of the burgher. 

“Well,” he continued, “the sloop answers 
for a floating vane to tell which way the tide is 
running, if she does nothing better; and that 
must be a great assistance, schipper, in the navi- 
gation of one who keeps as bright a lookout on 
the manner in which the world whirls round as a 
gentleman of your sagacity.” 

“If the news in the creek be true,” rejoined 
the unoffended owner of the periagua, “ there 
will be other business for Captain Ludlow and 
the Coquette before many days.” 

“ Ah ! having eaten all his meat and bread, 
the man will be obliged to victual his ship anew. 
’Twere a pity so active a gentleman should keep 
a fast in a brisk tide’s-way. And when his cop- 
pers are once more filled, and the dinner is 
fairly eaten, what dost think will be his next 
duty?” 

“ There is a report, among the boatmen of the 
South Bay, that something was seen yester’night 
off the outer side of Long Island.” 

I’ll answer for the truth of that rumor, for, 
having come up with the evening flood, I saw it 
myself.” 

“ Der duyvel’s luck ! and what dost take it to 
be?” 

“ The Atlantic Ocean ; if you doubt my word, 
I appeal to this well-ballasted old gentleman who, 
being a school-master, is able to give you latitude 
and longitude for its truth.” 

“I am Alderman Yan Beverout,” muttered 
the object of this new attack between his teeth, 
though apparently but half disposed to notice 
one who set so little bounds to his discourse. 

11 1 beg a thousand pardons ! ” returned the 
strange seaman, with a grave inclination of his 
body. “ The stolidity of your worship’s counte- 
nance deceived me. It may be, indeed, unreason- 
able to expect any alderman to know the position 
of the Atlantic Ocean ! — And yet, gentlemen, 
on the honor of a man who has seen much salt- 
water in his time, I do assure you the sea I speak 
of is actually there. If there be any thing on it, 
or in it, that should not be in reason, this worthy 
commander of the periagua will let us know the 
rest.” 

“ A wood-boat from the inlet says the Skim- 
mer of the Seas was lately seen standing along 
the coast,” returned the ferry-man, in the tone of 


one who is certain of delivering matter of general 
interest. 

“ Your true sea-dog, who runs in and out of 
inlets, is a man for marvels ! ” coolly observed the 
stranger. “ They know the color of the sea at 
night, and are forever steering in the wind’s eye 
in search of adventures. I wonder more of them 
are not kept at making almanacs ! There was a 
mistake concerning a thunder-storm in the last I 
bought, and all for the want of proper science. 
And pray, friend, who is this Skimmer of the Seas, 
that is said to be running after his needle like 
a tailor who has found a hole in his neighbor’s 
coat ? ” 

“ The witches may tell ! I only know that such 
a rover there is, and that he is here to-day, and 
there to-morrow. Some say that it is only a craft 
of mist that skims the top of the seas like a sail- 
ing water-fowl ; and others think it is the sprite 
of a vessel that was rifled and burnt by Kidd in 
the Indian Ocean, looking for its gold and the | 
killed. I saw him once myself, but the distance j 
was so great, and his manoeuvres so unnatural, ! 
that I could hardly give a good account of his hull 
or rig.” 

“ This is matter that don’t get into the log i 
every watch ! Whereaway, or in what seas, didst 
meet the thing ? ” 

“’Twas off the Branch. We were fishing in 
thick weather, and when the mist lifted a little, 
there was a craft seen standing inshore, running 
like a race-horse ; but while we got our anchor, 
she had made a league of offing on the other tack ! ” 

“ A certain proof of either her or your activi- 
ty ! But what might have been the form and 
shape of your fly-away ? ” 

“Nothing determined. To one she seemed a 
full-rigged and booming ship ; and another took 
her for a Bermudian scudder ; while to me she 
had the look of twenty periaguas built into a sin- 
gle craft. It is well known, however, that a West- 
Indiaman went to sea that night, and though it 
is now three years, no tidings of her or her crew | 
have ever come to any in York. I have never 
gone upon the banks to fish since that day, in thick 
weather.” | 

“ You have done well,” observed the stranger. 

“ I have seen many wonderful sights myself on 
the rolling ocean ; and he whose business it is to 
lay between wind and water like you, my friend, 
should never trust himself within reach of one 
of those devil’s fliers. I could tell you a tale of 
an affair in the calm latitudes, under the burning 
sun, that would be a lesson to all of overbold 
curiosity ! Commission and character are not af- 
fairs for your inshore coasters.” 


THE SLOOP-OF-WAR. 


“ We have tim e to hear it,” observed the 
patroon, whose attention had been excited by the 
discourse, and who read in the dark eye of 
Alida that she felt an interest in the expected 
narrative. 

But the countenance of the stranger sudden- 
ly grew serious. He shook his head like one who 
had sufficient reasons for his silence ; and, relin- 
quishing the tiller, he quite coolly obliged a gap- 
ing countryman in the centre of the boat to yield 
his place, where he laid his own athletic form at 
full length, folded his arms on his breast, and 
shut his eyes. In less than five minutes, all with- 
in hearing had audible evidence that this extraor- 
dinary son of the ocean was in a sound sleep. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Be patient, for the prize I’ll bring thee to, 

Shall hoodwink this mischance.” 

Tempest. 

The air, audacity, and language of the un- 
known mariner, had produced a marked sensa- 
tion among the passengers of the periagua. It 
was plain, by the playfulness that lurked about 
the coal-black eye of the belle Barberie, that she 
had been amused by his sarcasms, though the 
boldness of his manner had caused her to main- 
tain the reserve which she believed necessary to 
her sex and condition. The patroon studied the 
countenance of his mistress, and, though half 
offended by the freedom of the intruder, he had 
believed it wisest to tolerate his liberties, as the 
natural excesses of a spirit that had been lately 
released from the monotony of a sea-life. The 
repose which usually reigned in the countenance 
' of the alderman had been a little troubled ; but 
he succeeded in concealing his discontent from 
any impertinent observation. When the chief 
actor in the foregoing scene, therefore, saw fit to 
withdraw, the usual tranquillity was restored, and 
his presence appeared to be forgotten. 

An ebbing tide and a freshening breeze quick- 
, ly carried the periagua past the smaller islands 
of the bay, and brought the cruiser called the 
Coquette more distinctly into view. This vessel, 
a ship of twenty guns, lay abreast of the hamlet 
on the shores of Staten Island, which was the 
destination of the ferry - boat. Here was the 
usual anchorage of outward-bound ships, which 
awaited a change of wind ; and it was here that 
vessels then, as in our times, were subject to 
those examinations and delays which are imposed 
for the safety of the inhabitants of the city. 


19 

The Coquette was alone, however ; for the arri- 
val of a trader from a distant port was an event 
of unfrequent occurrence at the commencement 
of the eighteenth century. 

The course of the periagua brought her with- 
in fifty feet of the sloop-of-war. As the former 
approached, a movement of curiosity and inter- 
est occurred among those she contained. 

“ Take more room for your milkmaid,” grum- 
bled the alderman, observing that the schipper 
was willing to gratify his passengers by running 
as near as possible to the dark sides of the cruis- 
ci. Seas and oceans ! is not York Bay wide 
enough, that you must brush the dust out of the 
muzzles of the guns of yon lazy ship ? If the 
queen knew how her money was eaten and drunk 
by the idle knaves aboard her, she would send 
them all to hunt for freebooters among the 
islands. Look at the land, Alida, child, and 
you’ll think no more of the fright the gaping 
dunce is giving thee ; he only wishes to show his 
skill in steering.” 

But the niece manifested none of the terror 
that the uncle was willing to ascribe to her fears. 
Instead of turning pale, the color deepened on 
her cheeks as the periagua came dancing along 
under the lee of the cruiser, and, if her respiration 
became quicker than usual, it was scarcely pro- 
duced by the agitation of alarm. The near sight 
of the tall masts, and of the maze of cordage that 
hung nearly above their heads, however, pre- 
vented the change from being noted. A hundred 
curious eyes were already peeping at them 
through the ports or over the bulwarks of the 
ship, when suddenly an officer, who wore the un- 
dress of a naval captain of that day, sprang into 
the main rigging of the cruiser, and saluted the 
party in the periagua by waving his hat hurried- 
ly, like one who was agreeably taken by sur- 
prise. 

“ A fair sky and gentle breezes to each and 
all ! ” he cried, with the hearty manner of a sea- 
man. “ I kiss my hand to the fair Alida ; and 
the alderman will take a sailor’s good wishes. 
Mr. Van Staats, I salute you.” 

“ Ay,” muttered the burgher, “ your idlers 
have nothing better to do than make words an- 
swer for deeds. A lazy war and a distant enemy 
make you seamen the lords of the land, Captain 
Ludlow.” 

Alida blushed still deeper, hesitated, and then, 
by a movement that was half involuntary, she 
waved her handkerchief. The young patroon 
arose, and answered the salutation by a courte- 
ous bow. By this time the ferry-boat was near- 
ly past the ship, and the scowl was quitting the 


20 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


face of the alderman, when the mariner of the 
India shawl sprang to his feet, and in a mo- 
ment he stood again in the centre of their party. 

“ A pretty sea-boat, and a neat show aloft ! ” 
he said, as his understanding eye scanned the 
rigging of the royal cruiser, taking the tiller at 
the same time, with all his former indifference, 
from the hands of the schipper. “Her majesty 
should have good service from such a racer, and 
no doubt the youth in her rigging is a man to get 
the most out of his craft. We’ll take anoth- 
er observation. Draw away your head-sheet, 
boy.” 

The stranger had put the helm a-lee while 
speaking, and by the time the order he had giv- 
en was uttered the quick-working boat was about, 
and nearly filled on the other tack. In another 
minute she was again brushing along the side of the 
sloop-of-war. A common complaint against this 
hardy interference with the regular duty of the 
boat was about to break out of the lips of the 
alderman and the schipper, when he of the India 
shawl lifted his cap and addressed the officer in 
the rigging with all the self-possession he had 
manifested in the intercourse with those nearer 
his person. 

“ Has her majesty need of a man in her ser- 
vice who has seen, in his time, more blue water 
than hard ground ; or is there no empty berth, 
in so gallant a cruiser, for one who must do a 
seaman’s duty or starve ? ” 

The descendant of the king-hating Ludlows, 
as the Lord Combury had styled the race of the 
commander of the Coquette, was quite as much 
surprised by the appearance of him who put this 
question, as be was by the coolness with which 
a mariner of ordinary condition presumed to ad- 
dress an officer who bore so high a commission as 
his own. He had, however, sufficient time to 
recollect in whose presence he stood ere he re- 
plied, for the stranger had again placed the helm 
a-lee, and caused the foresail to be thrown back 
— a change that made the periagua stationary. 

“ The queen will always receive a bold mariner 
in her pay, if he come prepared to serve with 
skill and fidelity,” he said ; “as a proof of which, 
let a rope be thrown the periagua ; we shall treat 
more at our ease under her majesty’s pennant. I 
shall be proud to entertain Alderman Van Bever- 
out, in the mean time ; and a cutter will always 
be at his command when he shall have occasion 
to quit us.” 

“Your land-loving aldermen find their way 
from a queen’s cruiser to the shore more easily 
than a seaman of twenty years’ experience,” re- 
turned the other, without giving the burgher time 


to express his thanks for the polite offer of the 
other. “You have gone through the Gibraltar 
passage, without doubt, noble captain, being a 
gentleman that has got so fine a boat under his 
orders ? ” 

“ Duty has taken me into the Italian seas 
more than once,” answered Ludlow, half disposed 
to resent this familiarity, though to anxious to 
keep the periagua near, to quarrel with him 
who so evidently had produced the unexpected 
pleasure. 

“ Then you know that, though a lady might 
fan a ship through the straits eastward, it needs 
a Levant-breeze to bring her out again. Her 
majesty’s pennants are long, and when they get 
foul around the limbs of a thoroughly-bred sea- 
dog, it passes all his art to clear the jam. It is 
most worthy of remark, that the better the sea- 
man, the less his power to cast loose the knot! ” 

“ If the pennant be so long, it may reach 
farther than you wish ! — But a bold volunteer has 
no occasion to dread a press.” 

“ I fear the berth I wish is filled,” returned 
the other, curling his lip ; “ let draw the fore-sheet, 
lad ; we will take our departure, leaving the fly 
of the pennant well under our lee. — Adieu, brave 
captain ; when you have need of a thorough rover, j 
and dream of stem-chases and wet sails, think 
of him who visited your ship at her lazy moor- 
ings.” 

Ludlow bit his lips, and though his fine face 
reddened to the temples, he met the arch-glance 
of Alida, and laughed. But he who had so hardi- 
ly braved the resentment of a man powerful as the 
commander of a royal cruiser in a British colony, 
appeared to understand the hazard of his situa- 
tion. The periagua whirled round on her heel, and 
the next minute it was bending to the breeze, and 
dashing through the little waves toward the shore. 
Three boats left the cruiser at the same moment. 
One, which evidently contained her captain, ad- 
vanced with the usual dignified movement of a 
barge landing an officer of rank, but the others 
were urged ahead with all the earnestness of a 
hot chase. 

“ Unless disposed to serve the queen, you have 
not done well, my friend, to brave one of her 
commanders at the muzzles of his guns,” observed 
the patroon, so soon as the state of the case be- 
came too evident to doubt of the intentions of the 
man-of-war’s men. 

“That Captain Ludlow would gladly take 
some of us out of this boat, by fair means or by 
foul, is a fact clear as a bright star in a cloudless 
night ; and, well knowing a seaman’s duty to his 
superiors, I shall leave him to his choice.” 


PURSUED. 


“In which case you will shortly eat her 
majesty’s bread,” pithily returned the alderman. 

“ The food is unpalatable, and I reject it ; yet 
here is a boat whose crew seem determined to 
make one swallow worse fare.” 

The unknown mariner ceased speaking, for 
the situation of the periagua was truly getting to 
be a little critical. At least, so it seemed to the 
less-instructed landsmen who were witnesses of 
this unexpected rencontre. As the ferry-boat 
had drawn in with the island, the wind hauled 
more through the pass which communicates with 
the outer bay, and it became necessary to heave 
about twice, in order to fetch to windward of the 
usual landing-place. The first of these manoeu- 
vres had been executed, and as it necessarily 
changed their course, the passengers saw that the 
cutter to which the stranger alluded was enabled 
to get within-shore of them, or nearer to the wharf 
where they ought to land, than they were them- 
selves. Instead of suffering himself to be led off 
by a pursuit that he knew might easily be ren- 
dered useless, the officer who commanded this 
boat cheered his men, and pulled swiftly to the 
point of debarkation. On the other hand, a sec- 
ond cutter, which had already reached the line of 
the periagua’s course, lay on its oars, and awaited 
its approach. The unknown mariner manifested 
no intention to avoid the interview. He still held 
the tiller, and as effectually commanded the little 
vessel as if his authority were of a more regular 
character. The audacity and decision of his air 
and conduct, aided by the consummate manner 
in which he worked the boat, might alone have 
achieved this momentary usurpation, had not the 
general feeling against impressment been so much 
in his favor. 

“ The devil’s fangs ! ” grumbled the schipper. 
“ If you should keep the Milkmaid away, we shall 
lose a little in distance, though I think the man- 
of-war’s men will be puzzled to catch her, with a 
flowing sheet ! ” 

“ The queen has sent a message by the gen- 
tleman,” the mariner rejoined; “ it would be un- 
mannerly to refuse to hear it.” 

“ Heave-tothe periagua ! ” shouted the young 
officer in the cutter. “In her majesty’s name, I 
command you, obey ! ” 

“God bless the royal lady!” returned he of 
the foul-anchors and gay shawl, while the swift 
ferry-boat continued to dash ahead. “We owe 
her duty, and are glad to see so proper a gentle- 
man employed in her behalf.” 

By this time the boats were fifty feet asun- 
der. No sooner was there room, than the peria- 
gua once more flew round, and commenced anew 


21 

its course, dashing in again toward the shore. 
It was necessary, however, to venture within an 

oar s length of the cutter, or to keep away a 

loss of ground to which he who controlled her 
movements showed no disposition to submit. 
The officer arose, and, as the periagua drew near, 
it was evident his hand held a pistol, though he 
seemed reluctant to exhibit the weapon. The 
mariner stepped aside in a manner to offer a full 
view of all his group, as he sarcastically ob- 
served : 

“ Choose your object, sir ; in such a party a 
man of sentiment may have a preference.” 

The young man colored, as much with shame 
at the degrading duty he had been commissioned 
to perform, as with vexation at his failure. Re- 
covering his self-composure, however, he lifted 
his hat to la belle Barberie, and the periagua 
dashed on in triumph. Still the leading cutter 
was near the shore, where it soon arrived, the 
crew lying on their oars near the end of the 
wharf, in expectation of the arrival of the ferry- 
boat. At this sight the schipper shook his head, 
and looked up into the bold face of his passenger, 
in a manner to betray how much his mind mis- 
gave the result. But the tall mariner maintained 
his coolness, and began to make merry allusions 
to the service which he had braved with so much 
temerity, and from which no one believed he was 
yet likely to escape. By the former manoeuvres, 
the periagua had gained a position well to wind- 
ward of the wharf, and she was now steered close 
upon the wind, directly for the shore. Against 
the consequences of a perseverance in this course, 
however, the schipper saw fit to remonstrate. 

“ Shipwrecks and rocky bottoms ! ” exclaimed 
the alarmed waterman. “ A Holland galliot would 
go to pieces, if you should run her in among 
those stepping-stones with this breeze. No htin- 
est boatman loves to sea a man stowed in a 
cruiser’s hold, like a thief caged in his prison ; 
but when it comes to breaking the nose of the 
Milkmaid, it is asking too much of her owner 
to stand by and look on.” 

“ There shall not be a dimple in her lovely 
countenance deranged,” answered his cool pas- 
senger. — “ Now, lower away your sails, and we’ll 
run along the shore, down to yon wharf. ’Twould 
be an ungallant act to treat the dairy-girl with so 
little ceremony, gentlemen, after the lively foot 
and quick evolutions she has shown in our be- 
half. The best dancer in the island could not 
have better played her part, though jigging un- 
der the music of a three-stringed fiddle.” 

By this time the sails were lowered, and the 
periagua was gliding down toward the place of 


22 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


landing, running always at the distance of some 
fifty feet from the shore. 

“ Every craft has its allotted time, like a mor- 
tal,” continued the inexplicable mariner of the 
India shawl. “ If she is to die a sudden death, 
there is your beam-end and stern-way, which 
takes her into the grave without funeral service 
or parish prayers ; your dropsy is being water- 
logged ; gout and rheumatism kill like a broken 
back and loose joints ; indigestion is a shifting 
cargo, with guns adrift ; the gallows is a bottom- 
ry-bond, with lawyers’ fees ; while fire, drowning, 
death by religious melancholy, and suicide, are a 
careless g unn er, sunken rocks, false lights, and a 
lubberly captain.” 

Ere any were apprised of his intention, this 
singular being then sprang from the boat on the 
cap of a little rock, over which the waves were 
washing, whence he bounded from stone to stone 
by vigorous efforts, till he fairly leaped to land. 
In another minute he was lost to view among the 
dwellings of the hamlet. 

The arrival of the periagua, which immediate- 
ly after reached the wharf, the disappointment 
of the cutter’s crew, and the return of both the 
boats to their ship, succeeded as matters of 
course. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Oliv. “ Did lie write this ? ” 

Clo. “ Ay, madam.” 

Twelfth Night. 

If we say that Alida de Barberie did not cast 
a glance behind her as the party quitted the 
wharf, in order to see whether the boat that con- 
tained the commander of the cruiser followed the 
example of the others, we shall probably portray 
the maiden as one that was less subject to the in- 
fluence of coquetry than the truth would justify. 
To the great discontent of the alderman, whatever 
might have been the feelings of his niece on the 
occasion, the barge continued to approach the 
shore, in a manner which showed that the young 
seaman betrayed no visible interest in the result 
of the chase. 

The heights of Staten Island, a century ago, 
were covered, much as they are at present, with 
a growth of dwarf trees. Foot-paths led along 
this meagre vegetation in divers directions ; and, 
as the hamlet at the quarantine-ground was the 
point whence they all diverged, it required a 
practised guide to thread their mazes without a 
loss of both time and distance. It would seem, 
however, that the worthy burgher was fully equal 


to the office ; for, moving with more than his usu- 
al agility, he soon led his companions into the 
wood, and, by frequently altering his course, so 
completely confounded their sense of the relative 
bearings of places, that it is not probable one of 
them all could very readily have extricated him- 
self from the labyrinth. 

“ Clouds and shady bowers ! ” exclaimed Myn- 
dert, when he had achieved, to his own satisfac- 
tion, this evasion of the pursuit he wished to 
avoid ; “ little oaks and green pines are pleasant 
on a June morning. You shall have mountain 
air and a sea-breeze, patroon, to quicken the ap- 
petite of the Lust in Rust. If Alida will speak, 
the girl can say that a mouthful of the elixir is 
better for a rosy cheek than all the concoctions 
and washes that were ever invented to give a man 
a heartache.” 

“ If the place be as much changed as the road 
that leads to it,” returned la belle Barberie, glan- 
cing her dark eye, in vain, in the direction of the 
bay they had quitted, “I should scarcely venture 
an opinion on a subject of which I am obliged to 
confess utter ignorance.” 

“ Ah, woman is naught but vanities ! To see 
and to be seen, is the delight of the sex. Though 
we are a thousand times more comfortable in this 
wood than we should be in walking along the j 
water-side, why, the sea-gulls and snipes lose the i 
benefit of our company ! The salt-water, and all 
who live on it, are to be avoided by a wise man, 
Mr. Yan Staats, except as they both serve to 
cheapen freight and to render trade brisk. You’ll 
thank me for this care, niece of mine, when yon 
reach the bluff, cool as a package of furs free from 
moth, and fresh and beautiful as a Holland tulip, 
with the dew on it.” 

“ To resemble the latter, one might consent to 
walk blindfold, dearest uncle; and so we dismiss 
the subject. Francis, fais moi le plaisir de por- 
ter ce petit livre ; malgre la fraicheur de la foret, 
j’ai besoin de m’eventer.” 

The valet took the book with an empressement 
that defeated the more tardy politeness of the 
patroon ; and when he saw, by the vexed eye and 
flushed cheek of his young mistress, that she was 
incommoded rather by an internal than by the 
external heat, he whispered considerately : 

“ Que ma chere Mademoiselle Alide ne se ffiche 
pas! Elle ne manquerait jamais d’admirateurs, 
dans un desert. Ah ! si mam’selle allait voir la 
patrie de ses ancetres ! — ” 

“ ’Merci bien, mon cher ; gardez les feuilles, 
fortement fermees. II y a des papiers dedans.” 

“ Monsieur Frangois,” said the alderman, sep- 
arating his niece with little ceremony, from her 


23 


THE VALET AND 

nearly parental attendant, by the interposition of 
his own bulky person, and motioning for the oth- 
ers to proceed, “ a word with thee in confidence. 

I have noted, in the course of a busy and I hope 
a profitable life, that a faithful servant is an hon- 
est counsellor. Next to Holland and England, 
both of which are great commercial nations, and 
the Indies, which are necessary to these colonies, 
together with a natural preference for the land 
in which I was born, I have always been of opin- 
ion that France is a very good sort of a country. 

I think, Mr. Francis, that dislike to the seas has 
kept you from returning thither, since the decease 
of my late brother-in-law ? ” 

“ Wid like for Mam’selle Alide, monsieur, avec 
votre permission.” 

“ Your affection for my niece, honest Francis, 
is not to be doubted. It is as certain as the pay- 
ment of a good draft, by Crommeline, Van Stop- 
per, and Van Gelt, of Amsterdam. Ah ! old 
valet ! she is fresh and blooming as a rose, and 
a girl of excellent qualities ! ’Tis a pity that she - 
is a little opinionated ; a defect that she doubtless 
inherits from her Norman ancestors ; since all of 
my family have ever been remarkable for listen- 
ing to reason. The Normans were an obstinate 
race, as witness the siege of Rochelle, by which 
oversight real estate in that city must have lost 
much in value ! ” 

“ Mille excuses, Monsieur Bevre’ ; more 

beautiful as de rose, and no opiniatre du tout. 
Mon Dieu, pour sa qualite, c’est une famille tres 
ancienne.” 

“ That was a weak point with my brother 
Barberie, and, after all, it did not add a cipher 
to the sum total of the assets. The best blood, 
Mr. Franyois, is that which has been best fed. 
The line of Hugh Capet himself would fail without 
the butcher ; and the butcher would certainly fail 
without customers that can pay. Francis, thou 
art a man who understands the value of a sure 
footing in the world ; would it not be a thousand 
pities that such a girl as Alida should throw her- 
self away on one whose best foundation is no bet- 
ter than a rolling ship ? ” 

“ Certainement, monsieur; mam’selle be too 
good to roll in de ship.” 

“ Obliged to follow a husband up and down ; 
among freebooters and dishonest traders ; in fair 
weather and foul ; hot and cold ; wet and dry ; 
bilge-water and salt-water ; cramps and nausea ; 
salt-junk and no junk; gales and calms — and all 
for a hasty judgment formed in sanguine youth.” 

The face of the valet had responded to the 
alderman’s enumeration of the evils that would 
attend so ill-judged a step in his niece, as faith- 


THE ALDERMAN.- 

fully as if each muscle had been a mirror, to re- 
flect the contortions of one suffering under the 
malady of the sea. 

“ Parbleu, c’est horrible, cette mer ! ” he ejac- 
ulated, when the other had done. “It is grand 
malheur, dere should be watair but for drink, and 
for la proprete, avec fosse to keep de carp round 
le chateau. Mais, mam’selle be no haste judg- 
ment, and she shall have mari on la terre so- 
lide.” 

“ ’Twould be better that the estate of my 
brother-in-law should be kept in sight, judicious 
Francis, than to be sent adrift on the high- 
seas.” 

“ Dere vas marin dans la famille de Barberie, 
nevair.” 

“ Bonds and balances ! if the savings of one I 
could name, frugal Francis, were added in cur- 
rent coin, the sum total would sink a common 
ship. You know it is my intention to remember 
Alida, in settling accounts with the world.” 

“If Monsieur de Barberie vas ’live, Monsieur 
Alderman, he should say des choses convenables ; 
mais, malheureusement, mon cher maitre est 
mort ; and, sair, I shall be bold to remercier pour 
lui, et pour tout sa famille.” 

“Women are perverse, and sometimes they 
have pleasure in doing the very thing they are 
desired not to do.” 

“ Ma foi, oui ! ” 

“ Prudent men should manage them with soft 
words and rich gifts ; with these they become or- 
derly as a pair of well-broke geldings.” 

“Monsieur know,” said the old valet, rubbing 
his hands, and laughing with the subdued voice 
of a well-bred domestic, though he could not con- 
ceal a jocular wink; “pourtant il est garyon! Le 
cadeau be good for de demoiselles, and bettair as 
for de dames.” 

“ Wedlock and blinkers ! it is we gassons, as 
you call us, who ought to know. Your hen- 
pecked husband has no time to generalize among 
the sex, in order to understand the real quality 
of the article. Now here is Van Staats of Kin- 
derhook, faithful Franyois ; what think you of 
such a youth for a husband for Alida ? ” 

“ Pourtant, mam’selle like de vivacite; Mon- 
sieur le Patroon be nevair trop vif.” 

“ The more likely to be sure. — Hist ! I hear a 
footstep. We are followed — chased, perhaps, I 
should say, to speak in the language of these sea- 
gentry. Now is the time to show this Captain 
Ludlow how a Frenchman can wind him round 
his finger on terra Jirma. Loiter in the rear, and 
draw our navigator on a wrong course. When 
he has run into a fog, come yourself with all speed 


24 


THE WATER- WITCH. 


to the oak on the bluff. There we shall await 
you.” 

Flattered by this confidence, and really per- 
suaded that he was furthering the happiness of 
her he served, the old valet nodded in reply to the 
alderman’s wink and chuckle, and immediately 
relaxed his speed. The former pushed ahead ; 
and in a minute he and those who followed had 
turned short to the left, and were out of sight. 

Though faithfully and even affectionately at- 
tached to Alida, her servant had many of the 
qualifications of a European domestic. Trained 
in all the ruses of his profession, he was of that 
school which believes civilization is to be measured 
by artifice ; and success lost some of its value 
when it had been effected by the vulgar machin- 
ery of truth and common-sense. No wonder, 
then, the retainer entered into the views of the 
alderman with more than a usual relish for the 
duty. He heard the cracking of the dried twigs 
beneath the footstep of him who followed ; and, 
in order that there might be no chance of missing 
the desired interview, the valet began to hum a 
French air in so loud a key as to be certain the 
sounds would reach any ear that was nigh. The 
twigs snapped more rapidly, the footsteps seemed 
nearer, and the hero of the India shawl sprang to 
the side of the expecting Francis. 

The disappointment seemed mutual, and on 
the part of the domestic it entirely disconcerted 
all his prearranged schemes for misleading the 
commander of the Coquette. Not so with the 
bold mariner. So far from his self-possession be- 
ing disturbed, it would have been no easy matter 
to restrain his audacity, even in situations far 
more trying than any in which he has yet been 
presented to the reader. 

“What cheer in thy woodland cruise, Mon- 
sieur Broad-pennant ? ” he said, with infinite cool- 
ness, the instant his steady glance had ascertained 
they were all alone. “ This is safer navigation 
for an officer of thy draught of water, than run- 
ning about the bay in a periagua. What may be 
the longitude, and whereaway did you part com- 
pany from the consorts ? ” 

“ Sair, I valk in do vood for de plaisir, and I 
go on de bay for de — parbleu, non ! ’tis to follow 
raa jeune maitresse I go on de bay; and, sair, I 
wish dey who do love de bay and de sea, would 
not come into de vood, du tout.” 

“ Well spoken, and with ample spirit ; what, 
a Siudent, too! one in a wood should glean some- 
thing from his labors. Is it the art of furling a 
main cue that is taught m this prettv volume ? ” 

As the mariner put his question, he very de- 
liberately took the book from Fran§ois, who, in- 


stead of resenting the liberty, rather offered the 
volume in exultation. 

“ No, sair, it is not how to furl la cue, but how 
to touch de soul ; not de art to haul over de calm, 
but — oui, c’est plein de connoissance et d’esprit ! 
Ah ! ah ! you know de Cid ! le grand homme ! 
l’homme de genie ! If you read, Monsieur Marin, 
you shall see la vraie poesie ! Not de big book 
and no single rhyme. Sair, I do not vish to say 
vat is penible, mais it is not one book widout 
rhyme; it was not ecrit on de sea. Le diable! 
que le vrai genie, et les nobles sentiments, se 
trouvent dans ce livre, lk ! ” 

“ Ay, I see it is a log-book for every man to 
note his mind in. I return you Master Cid, with 
his fine sentiments in the bargain. Great as was 
his genius, it would seem he was not the man to 
write all that I find between the leaves.” 

“ He not write him all ! Yes,_sair, he shall 
writ him six time more dan all, if la France a 
besoin. Quej’envie de ces Anglais se decouvre 
quand on parle des beaux genies de la France ! ” 

“ I will only say, if the gentleman wrote the 
whole that is in the book, and it is as fine as you 
would make a plain seafaring man believe, he did 
wrong not to print it.” 

“ Print ! ” echoed Francis, opening his eyes i 
and the volume, by a common impulse. “Im- 
prime ! ha ! here is papier of Mam’selle Alide as- 
surement.” 

“ Take better heed of it, then,” interrupted 
the seaman of the shawl. “ As for your Cid, to 
me it is a useless volume, since it teaches neithei* 
the latitude of a shoal nor the shape of a coast.” 

“ Sair, it teach de morale ; de rock of de pas- 
sion et les grands mouvements de 1’ame ! Oui, 
sair ; it teach all un monsieur vish to know. Tout 
le monde read him in la France; en province 
comme en ville. If sa majest4 le Grand Louis be ! 
not so mal avise as to chasser messieurs les 
Huguenots from his royaume, I shall go to Paris 
to hear le Cid, moi-meme ! ” 

“A good journey to you, Monsieur Queue. We 
may meet on the road, until which time I take 
my departure. The day may come when we shall 
converse with a rolling sea beneath us. Till then, 
brave cheer ! ” 

“Adieu, monsieur,” returned Francois, bow- 
ing with a politeness that had become too famil- 
iar to be forgotten. “ If we do not meet but in 
de sea, we shall not meet nevair. Ah, ha, ha! 
Monsieur le Marin n’aime pas k entendre parler de 
la gloire de la France ! Je voudrais bien savoir lire 
ce f — e Shak-a-spear, pour voir combien l’immortel 
Corneille lui est superieur. Ma foi, oui ; Monsieur 
Pierre Corneille est vraiment un homme illustre ! ” 


THE ESCAPE. 


25 


The faithful, self-complacent, and aged valet, 
then pursued his way toward the large oak on 
the bluff; for, as he ceased speaking, the mari- 
ner of the gay sash had turned deeper into the 
woods, and left him alone. Proud of the manner 
in which he had met the audacity of the stranger, 
prouder still of the reputation of the author, 
whose fame had been known in France long be- 
fore his own departure from Europe, and not a 
little consoled with the reflection that he had 
contributed his mite to support the honor of his 
distant and well-beloved country, the honest Fran- 
cis pressed the volume affectionately beneath 
his arm, and hastened on after his mistress. 

Though the position of Staten Island and the 
surrounding bays is so familiar to the Manhat- 
tanese, an explanation of the localities may be 
agreeable to readers who dwell at a distance from 
the scene of the tale. 

It has already been said that the principal 
communication between the bays of Raritan and 
York is called the Harrows. At the mouth of 
this passage, the land on Staten Island rises in a 
high bluff, which overhangs the water, not unlike 
the tale-fraught cape of Misenum. From this 
elevated point, the eye not only commands a view 
of both estuaries and the city, but it looks far 
beyond the point of Sandy Hook into the open 
sea. It is here that, in our own days, ships are 
first noted in the offing, and whence the news of 
the approach of his vessel is communicated to 
the expecting merchant by means of the tele- 
graph. In the early part of the last century, ar- 
rivals were too rare to support such an establish- 
ment. The bluff was therefore little resorted to, 
except by some occasional admirer of scenery, 
or by those countrymen whom business, at long 
intervals, drew to the spot. It had been early 
cleared of its wood, and the oak already men- 
tioned was the only tree standing in a space of 
some ten or a dozen acres. 

It has been seen that Alderman Van Beverout 
had appointed this solitary oak as the place of 
rendezvous with Francis. Thither, then, he took 
his way on parting from the valet, and to this 
spot we must now transfer the scene. A rude 
seat had been placed around the root of the tree, 
and here the whole party, with the exception of 
the absent domestic, were soon seated. In a 
minute, however, they were joined by the exult- 
ing Francis, who immediately related the particu- 
lars of his recent interview with the stranger. 

“ A clear conscience, with cordial friends, and 
a fair balance-sheet, may keep a man warm in 
January, even in this climate,” said the aider- 
man, willing to turn the discourse ; “ but what 


with rebellious blacks, hot streets, and spoiling 
furs, it passeth mortal powers to keep cool in yon- 
der overgrown and crowded town. Thou seest, 
patroon, the spot of white on the opposite side of 
the bay. — Breezes and fanning ! that is the Lust 
in Rust, where cordial enters the mouth at every 
breath, and where a man has room to cast up the 
sum total of his thoughts any hour in the twenty- 
four.” 

“We seem quite as effectually alone on this 
hill, with the advantage of having a city in the 
view,” remarked Alida, with an emphasis that 
showed she meant even more than she expressed. 

“We are by ourselves, niece of mine,” re- 
turned the alderman, rubbing his hands as if he 
secretly felicitated himself that the facts were so. 
“ That truth cannot be denied, and good company 
we are, though the opinion comes from one who 
is not a cipher in the party. Modesty is a poor 
man’s wealth ; but as we grow substantial in 
the world, patroon, one can afford to begin to 
speak truth of himself as well as of his neigh- 
bor.” 

“ In which case, little but good will be uttered 
from the mouth of Alderman Van Beverout,” 
said Ludlow, appearing so suddenly from behind 
the root of the tree, as effectually to shut the 
mouth of the burgher. “ My desire to offer the 
services of the ship to your party has led to this 
abrupt intrusion, and I hope will obtain its par- 
don.” 

“ The power to forgive is a prerogative of the 
governor, who represents the queen,” dryly re- 
turned the alderman. “ If her majesty has so 
little employment for her cruisers, that their cap- 
tains can dispose of them in behalf of old men 
and young maidens — why, happy is the age, and 
commerce should flourish ! ” 

“ If the two duties are compatible, the greater 
the reason why a commander should felicitate 
himself that he may be of service to so many. 
You are bound to the Jersey Highlands, Mr. Van 
Beverout ? ” 

“ I am bound to a comfortable and very pri- 
vate abode called the Lust in Rust, Captain Cor- 
nelius Van Cuyler Ludlow.” 

The young man bit his lip, and his healthful 
but brown cheek flushed a deeper red than com- 
mon, though he preserved his composure. 

“And I am bound to sea,” he soon said. 
“The wind is getting fresh, and your boat, which 
I see at this moment standing in for the island, 
will find it difficult to make way against its force. 
The Coquette’s anchor will be aweigh in twenty 
minutes, and I shall find two hours of an ebbing 
tide, and a top-gallant breeze, but too short a 


26 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


time for the pleasure of entertaining such guests. 
I am certain that the fears of la Belle will favor 
my wishes whichsoever side of the question her 
inclination may happen to be.” 

“And they are with her uncle,” quickly re- 
turned Alida. “ I am so little of a sailor that 
prudence, if not pusillanimity, teaches me to de- 
pend on the experience of older heads.” 

“ Older I may not pretend to be,” said Lud- 
low, coloring; “but Mr. Van Beverout will see 
no pretension in believing myself as good a 
judge of wind and tide as even he himself can 
be.” 

“You are said to command her majesty’s 
sloop with skill, Captain Ludlow, and it is credit- 
able to the colony that it has produced so good 
an officer; though I believe your grandfather 
came into the province so lately as on the restora- 
tion of King Charles II. ? ” 

“We cannot claim descent from the United 
Provinces, Alderman Yan Beverout, on the pater- 
nal side ; but, whatever may have been the polit- 
ical opinions of my grandfather, those of his de- 
scendant have never been questioned. Let me 
entreat the fair Alida to take counsel of the ap- 
prehension I am sure she feels, and to persuade 
her uncle that the Coquette is safer than his peri- 
agua.” 

“ It is said to be easier to enter than to quit 
your ship,” returned the laughing Alida. “ By 
certain symptoms that attended our passage to 
the island, your Coquette, like others, is fond of 
conquests. One is not safe beneath so malign an 
influence.” 

“ This is a reputation given by our enemies. 
I had hoped for a different answer from la belle 
Barberie.” 

The close of the sentence was uttered with an 
emphasis that caused the blood to quicken its 
movement in the veins of the maiden. It was for- 
tunate that neither of their companions was very 
observant, or else suspicions might have been 
excited that a better intelligence existed between' 
the young sailor and the heiress, than would 
have comported with their wishes and inten- 
tions. 

“I had hoped for a different answer from la 
belle Barberie,” repeated Ludlow, in a lower 
voice, but with even a still more emphatic tone 
than before. 

There was evidently a struggle in the mind of 
Alida. She overcame it before her confusion 
could be noted ; and turning to the valet she said, 
with the composure and grace that became a gen- 
tlewoman : 

“ Rends moi le livre, Francis.” 


“ Le voici — ah ! ma ch&re mam’selle Alide, que 
ce monsieur le marin se fachait & cause de la 
gloire, et des beaux vers de notre illustre M. 
Pierre Corneille ! ” 

“ Here is an English sailor that I am sure will 
not deny the merit of an admired writer, even 
though he come of a nation that is commonly 
thought hostile, Francis,” returned his mis- 
tress, smiling. — “ Captain Ludlow, it is now a 
month since I am your debtor, by promise, for a 
volume of Corneille, and I here acquit myself of 
the obligation. When you have perused the 
contents of this book, with the attention they de- 
serve, I may hope — ” 

“ For a speedy opinion of their merits.” 

“ I was about to say, to receive the volume 
again, as it is a legacy from my father,” steadily 
rejoined Alida. 

“ Legacies and foreign tongues ! ” muttered 
the alderman. “ One is well enough ; but for the 
other, English and Dutch are all that the wisest 
man need learn. I never could understand an 
account of profit and loss in any other tongue, 
patroon ; and even a favorable balance never ap- 
pears so great as it is, unless the account be 
rendered in one or the other of these rational dia- 
lects. Captain Ludlow, we thank you for your 
politeness, but here is one of my fellows to tell us 
that my own periagua is arrived ; and, wishing 
you a happy and a long cruise, as we say of lives, 
I bid you adieu.” 

The young seaman returned the salutations of 
the party, with a better grace than his previous so- 
licitude to persuade them to enter his ship might 
have given reason to expect. He even saw them 
descend the hill, toward the water of the outer 
bay, with entire composure ; and it was only after 
they had entered a thicket which hid them from 
view, that he permitted his feelings to have 
sway. 

Then, indeed, he drew the volume from his 
pocket and opened its leaves with an eagerness 
he could no longer control. It seemed as if he 
expeoted to read more, in the pages, than the au- 
thor had caused to be placed there ; but when 
his eye caught sight of a sealed billet, the legacy 
of M. de Barberie fell at his feet : and the paper 
was torn asunder, with all the anxiety of one who 
expected to find in its contents a decree of life or 
death. 

Amazement was clearly the first emotion of 
the young seaman. He read and reread ; struck 
his brow with his hand ; gazed about him at the 
land and at the water; reperused the note; ex- 
amined the superscription, which was simply to 
“Captain Ludlow, of her majesty’s ship Co* 


AN INTERRUPTION. 


27 


quette ; ” smiled ; muttered between bis teeth ; 
seemed vexed, yet delighted ; read the note again 
word by word, and finally thrust it into his pocket, 
with the air of a man who had found reason for 
both regret and satisfaction in its contents. 


CHAPTER YI. 

“ What, has this thing appeared again, to-night ? ” 
t Hamlet. 

“ The face of man is the log-book of his 
thoughts, and Captain Ludlow’s seem agreeable,” 
observed a voice, that came from one who was 
not far from the commander of the Coquette, 
while the latter was still enacting the pantomime 
described in the close of the preceding chapter. 

“ Who speaks of thoughts and log-books, or 
who dares to pry into my movements ? ” de- 
manded the young sailor, fiercely. 

“ One who has trifled with the first and scrib- 
led in the last too often, not to know how to meet 
a squall, whether it be seen in the clouds or only 
on the face of man. As for looking into your 
movements, Captain Ludlow, I have watched too 
many big ships in my time, to turn aside at each 
light cruiser that happens to cross my course. I 
hope, sir, you have an answer ; every hail has its 
right to a civil reply.” 

Ludlow could scarce believe his senses, when, 
on turning to face the intruder, he saw himself 
confronted by the audacious eye and calm mien 
of the mariner who had, once before that morn- 
ing, braved his resentment. Curbing his indig- 
nation, however, the young man endeavored to 
emulate the coolness which, notwithstanding his 
inferior condition, imparted to the air of the other 
something that was imposing, if it were not ab- 
solutely authoritative. Perhaps the singularity 
of the adventure aided in effecting an object, that 
was a little difficult of attainment in one accus- 
tomed to receive so much habitual deference from 
most of those who made the sea their home. 
Swallowing his resentment, the young commander 
answered : 

“ He that knows how to face his enemies with 
spirit, may be accounted sufficiently bold; but 
he who braves the anger of his friend is fool- 
hardy.” 

“And he who does neither is wiser than 
both,” rejoined the reckless hero of the sash. 
“ Captain Ludlow, we meet on equal terms, at 
present, and the parley may be managed with 
some freedom.” 

“Equality is a word that ill applies to nten 
of stations so different” 


“ Of our stations and duties it is not necessa- 
ry to speak. I hope that, when the proper time 
shall come, both may be found ready to be at the 
first, and equal to discharge the last. But Cap- 
tain Ludlow, backed by the broadside of the 
Coquette and the cross-fire of his marines, is not 
Captain Ludlow alone, on a sea-bluff, with a crutch 
no better than his own arm, and a stout heart. 
As the first, he is like a spar supported by back- 
stays and forestays, braces and standing rigging ; 
while as the latter, he is the stick, which keeps 
its head aloft by the soundness and quality of its 
timber. You have the appearance of one who 
can go alone, even though it blew heavier than 
at present, if one may judge of the force of the 
breeze, by the manner it presses on the sails of 
yonder boat in the bay.” 

“Yonder boat begins to feel the wind, tru- 
ly ! ” said Ludlow, suddenly losing all other inter- 
est in the appearance of the periagua which held 
Alida and her friends, and w r hich,'at that instant, 
shot out from beneath the cover of the hill into 
the broad opening of Raritan Bay. “ What think 
you of the time, my friend ? a man of your years 
should speak with knowledge of the weather.” 

“Women and winds are only understood, 
when fairly in motion,” returned he of the sash ; 
“ now, any mortal who consulted comfort and the 
skies, would have preferred a passage in her 
majesty’s ship Coquette, to one in yonder dancing 
periagua; yet the fluttering silk we see in the 
boat, tells us there is one who has thought other- 
wise.” 

“ You are a man of singular intelligence,” 
cried Ludlow, again facing the intruder ; “ as well 
as one of singular — ” 

“Effrontery,” rejoined the other, observing 
that the commander hesitated. “Let the com- 
missioned officer of the queen speak boldly ; I am 
no better than a top-man, or at most a quarter- 
master.” 

“ I wish to say nothing disagreeable, but I 
find your knowledge of my offer to convey the 
lady and her friends to the residence of Alderman 
Yan Beverout a little surprising.” 

“And I see nothing to wonder at, in your 
offer to convey the lady anywhere, though the 
liberality to her friends is not an act of so clear 
explanation. When young men speak from the 
heart, their words are not uttered in whispers.” 

“ Which would imply that you overheard our 
conversation. I believe it, for here is cover at 
hand to conceal you. It may be, sir, that you 
have eyes as well as ears.” 

“ I confess to have seen your countenance 
changing sides, like a member of Parliament 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


turning to a new leaf in his conscience at the 
minister’s signal, while you overhauled a bit of 
paper — ” 

“ Whose contents you could not know ! ” 

“ Whose contents I took to be some private 
orders, given by a lady who is too much of a 
coquette herself, to accept your offer to sail in a 
vessel of the same name.” 

« By Heavens, the fellow has reason in his in- 
explicable impudence ! ” muttered Ludlow, pacing 
backward and forward beneath the shadow of the 
tree. “ The language and the acts of the girl are 
in contradiction ; and I am a fool to be trifled with, 
like a midshipman fresh broken loose from his 
mother’s apron-string. Harkee, Master-a-a — 
You’ve a name, I suppose, like any other strag- 
gler on the ocean.” 

“ Yes. When the hail is loud enough to be 
heard, I answer to the call of Thomas Tiller.” 

“Well, then, Master Tiller, so clever a seaman 
should be glad'to serve the queen.” 

“ Were it not for duty to another, whose claim 
comes first, nothing could be more agreeable 
to me than to lend a lady in distress a helping 
hand.” 

“ And who is he, who may prefer a claim to 
your services, in competition with the majesty 
of these realms ? ” demanded Ludlow, with a lit- 
tle of the pretension that, when speaking of its 
privileges, is apt to distinguish the manner of 
one who has been accustomed to regard royalty 
with reverence. 

“ Myself. When our affairs call us the same 
way, no one can be readier than I, to keep her 
majesty’s company; but — ” 

“ This is presuming too far, on the trifling 
of a moment,” interrupted Ludlow ; “ you know, 
sirrah, that I have the right to command your ser- 
vices, without entering into a parley for them ; and 
which, notwithstanding your gay appearance, 
may after all be little worth the trouble.” 

“ There is no need to push matters to extrem- 
ity between us, Captain Ludlow,” resumed the 
stranger, who had appeared to muse for a mo- 
ment. “ If I have baffled your pursuit once to- 
day, it was perhaps to make my merit in entering 
the ship freely, less undeniable. We are here 
alone, and your honor will account it no boasting 
if I say that a man, well-limbed and active, who 
stands six feet between plank and carline, is not 
likely to be led against his will, like a yawl tow- 
ing at the stern of a four-and-forty. I am a sea- 
man, sir ; and, though the ocean is my home, I 
never venture on it without sufficient footing. 
Look abroad from this hill, and say whether there 
is any craft in view, except the cruiser of the 


queen, which would be likely to suit the taste of 
a mariner of the long vovage ? ” 

“ By which you would have me understand, 
you are here in quest of service ? ” 

“ Nothing less ; and, though the opinion of a 
foremast Jack may be of little value, you will not 
be displeased to hear that I might look farther 
without finding a prettier sea-boat, or a swifter, 
than the one which sails under your own orders. 
A seaman of your station, Captain Ludlow, is not 
now to learn that a man speaks differently, 
while his name is his own, and after he has given 
it away to the crown : and therefore I hope my 
present freedom will not be long remembered.” 

“ I have met men of your humor before, my 
friend, and I have not now to learn that a 
thorough man-of-war’s man is as impudent on 
shore as he is obedient afloat. Is that a sail, in 
the offing, or is it the wing of a sea-fowl, glitter- 
ing in the sun ? ” 

“ It may be either,” observed the audacious 
mariner, turning his eyes leisurely toward the 
open ocean, “for we have a wide lookout from 
this windy bluff. Here are gulls sporting above 
the waves, that turn their feathers toward the 
light.” 

“ Look more seaward. That spot of shining 
white should be the canvas of some craft, hover- 
ing in the offing ! ” 

“Nothing more probable, in so light a breeze. 
Your coasters are in and out, like water-rats on 
a wharf, at any hour of the twenty-four — and yet 
to me it seems the comb of a breaking sea.” 

“’Tis snow-white duck; such as your swift 
rover wears on his loftier spars ! ” 

“ A duck that is flown,” returned the stranger, 
dryly, “ for it is no longer to be seen. These fly- 
aways, Captain Ludlow, give us seamen many 
sleepless nights and idle chases. I was once 
running down the coast of Italy, between the isl- 
and of Corsica and thg main, when one of these 
delusions beset the crew, in a manner that hath 
taught me to put little faith in eyes, unless backed 
by a clear horizon and a cool head.” 

“I’ll hear the circumstance,” said Ludlow, 
withdrawing his gaze from the distant ocean, 
like one who was satisfied his senses had been 
deceived. “ What of this marvel of the Italian 
seas? ” 

“ A marvel truly, as your honor will Confess, 
when I read you the affair, much in the words I 
had it logged, for the knowledge of all concerned. 
It was the last hour of the second dog-watch, on 
Easter Sunday, with the wind here at southeast- 
easterly. A light air filled the upper canvas, and 
just gave us command of the ship. The moun- 


MASTER TILLER AND CAPTAIN LUDLOW. 


29 


tains of Corsica, with Monte Christo and Elba, 
had all been sunk some hours, and we were on 
the yards, keeping a lookout for a landfall on the 
Roman coast. A low, thick bank of drifting fog 
lay along the sea, inshore of us, which all believed 
to be the sweat of the land, and thought no more 
of ; though none wished to enter it, for that is a 
coast where foul airs rise, and through which the 
gulls and land-birds refuse to fly. Well, here we 
lay, the mainsail in the brails, the topsails beating 
the mast-heads, like a maiden fanning herself 
when she sees her lover, and nothing full but the 
upper duck, with the sun fairly below the water 
in the western board. I was then young, and 
quick of eye, as of foot, and therefore among the 
first to see the sight ! ” 

“ Which was — ? ” said Ludlow, interested in 
spite of his assumed air of indifference. 

“ Why, here just above the bank of foul air, 
that ever rests on that coast, there was seen an 
object, that looked like ribs of bright light, as if 
a thousand stars had quitted their usual berths 
in the heaven, to warn us off the land by a super- 
natural beacon. The sight was in itself altogether 
out of nature and surprising. As the night 
thickened, it grew brighter and more glowing, as 
if ’twere meant in earnest to warn us from the 
coast. But when the word was passed to send 
the glasses aloft, there was seen a glittering cross 
on high, and far above the spars on which earthly 
ships carry their private signals.” 

“ This was indeed extraordinary ! and what 
did you, to come at the character of the heavenly 
symbol ! ” 

“We wore off-shore, and left it a clear berth 
for bolder mariners. Glad enough was I to see, 
with the morning sun, the snowy hills of Corsica 
again ! ” 

“ And the appearance of that object was never 
explained ? ” 

“ Nor ever will be. I have since spoke with 
the mariners of that sea concerning the sight, but 
never found any who could pretend to have seen 
it. There was indeed one bold enough to say, 
there is a church, far inland, of height and magni- 
tude sufficient to be seen some leagues at sea, 
and that, favored by our position and the mists 
that hung above the low grounds, we had seen its 
upper works, looming above the fogs, and lighted 
for some brilliant ceremony ; but we were all too 
old in seaman’s experience to credit so wild a tale. 
I know not but a church may loom, as well as a 
hill or a ship ; but he who pretends to say that 
the hands of man can thus pile stones among the 
clouds, should be certain of believers, ere he 
pushes the tale too far.” 


“Your narrative is extraordinary, and the 
marvel should have been looked into closer. It 
may truly have been a church, for there stands 
an edifice at Rome, which towers to treble the 
height of a cruiser’s masts.” 

“ Having rarely troubled churches, I know not 
why a church should trouble me,” said the mari- 
ner of the sash, while he turned his back on the 
ocean, as if indisposed to regard the waste of water 
longer. “ It is now twelve years since that sight 
was seen, and, though a seaman of many voyages, 
my eyes have not looked upon the Roman coast 
from that hour to this. Will your honor lead the 
way from the bluff, as becomes your rank ? ” 

“Your tale of the burning cross and looming 
church, Master Tiller, had almost caused me to 
forget to watch the movements of yon peria- 
gua,” returned Ludlow, who still continued to 
face the bay. “That obstinate old Dutchman — 
I say, sir, that Mr. Alderman Yan Beverout has 
greater confidence in this description of craft 
than I feel myself. I like not the looks of yon- 
der cloud, which is rising from out the mouth of 
Raritan ; and here, seaward, we have a gloomy 
horizon. By Heaven ! there is a sail playing in 
the offing, or my eye hath lost its use and judg- 
ment.” 

“Your honor sees the wing of the sporting 
gull again ; it had been nigh to deceive my sight, 
which would be to cheat the lookout of a man 
that has the advantage of some ten or fifteen 
years’ more practice in marine appearances. I 
remember once, when beating in among the 
islands of the China seas, with the trades here at 
southeast — ” 

“ Enough of your marvels, friend ; the church 
is as much as I can swallow, in one morning. — It 
may have been a gull ! for I confess the object 
small : yet it had the steadiness and size of a 
distant sail ! There is some reason to expect one 
on our coast, for whom a bright and seaman’s 
watch must be had.” 

“ This may then leave me a choice of ships,” 
rejoined Tiller. “I thank your honor for having 
spoken, before I had given myself away to the 
queen ; who is a lady that is much more apt to 
receive gifts of this nature than to return them.” 

“ If your respect aboard shall bear any pro- 
portion to your hardihood on shore, you may be 
accounted a model of civility ! But a mariner 
of your pretension should have some regard to 
the character of the vessel in which he takes 
service.” 

“ That of which your honor spoke is, then, a 
buccaneer ? ” 

“ If not a buccaneer, one but little better. A 


30 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


lawless trader, under the most favorable view ; and 
there are those who think that he, who has gone 
so far, has not stopped short of the end. But 
the reputation of the Skimmer of the Seas’ must 
be known to one who has navigated the ocean, 
long as you.” 

“You will overlook the curiosity of a seafar- 
ing man, in a matter of his profession,” returned 
the mariner of the sash, with strong and evident 
interest in his manner. “ I am lately from a dis- 
tant ocean, and, though many tales of the buc- 
caneers of the islands have been narrated, I do 
not remember to have heard of that rover, before 
his name came into the discourse between me and 
the schipper of the boat that plies between this 
landing and the city. I am not altogether what 
I seem, Captain Ludlow ; and, when further ac- 
quaintance and hard service shall have brought 
me more before the eyes of my commander, he 
may not repent having induced a thorough sea- 
man to enter his ship, by a little condescension 
and good-nature shown while the man was still 
his own master. Your honor will take no offence 
at my boldness, when I tell you I should be glad 
to know more of this unlawful trader.” 

Ludlow riveted his eyes on the unmoved and 
manly countenance of his companion. There 
was a vague and undefined suspicion in the 
look ; but it vanished, as the practised organs 
drank in the assurance, which so much physical 
promise afforded, of the aid of a bold and active 
mariner. Rather amused than offended by the 
freedom of the request, he turned upon his heel, 
and as they descended the bluff, on their way 
toward the place of landing, he continued the 
dialogue. 

“ You are truly from a distant ocean,” said 
the young captain of the Coquette, smiling like 
a man who apologizes to himself for an act of 
what he thought undue condescension, “ if the 
exploits of a brigantine known by the name of 
the Water-Witch, and of him who commands 
her, under the fit appellation of the Skimmer 
of the Seas, have not yet reached your ears. 
If is now five summers since orders have been 
in the colonies for the cruisers to be on the alert 
to hunt the picaroon ; and it is even said the 
daring smuggler has often braved the pennants 
of the narrow seas. ’Twould be a bigger ship, 
if not knighthood, to the lucky officer who should 
catch the knave ! ” 

He must drive a money-gaining trade to run 
these risks, and to brave the efforts of so many 
skilful gentlemen ! May I add to a presumption 
that your honor already finds too bold, if one may 
judge by a displeased eye, by asking if report 


speaks to the face and other particulars of the 
person of this — free-trader, one must call him, 
though freebooter should be a better word.” 

“What matters the personal condition of a 
rogue ! ” said Captain Ludlow, who perhaps re- 
membered that the freedom of their intercourse 
had been carried as far as comported with pru- 
dence. 

“ What matter, truly ! I asked because the de- 
scription answers a little to that of a man I once 
knew, in the seas of farther India, and who has 
long since disappeared, though no one can say 
whither he has gone. But this Skimmer of the 
Seas is some Spaniard of the Main, or perhaps a 
Dutchman come from the country that is awash, 
in order to taste of terra firma.” 

“ Spaniard of the southern coast never carried 
so bold a sail in these seas, nor was there ever 
known a Dutchman with so light a heel. The 
fellow is said to laugh at the swiftest cruiser out 
of England ! As to his figure, I have heard little 
good of it. ’Tis said he is some soured officer 
of better days, who has quitted the intercourse 
of honest men, because roguery is so plainly writ- 
ten on his face that he vainly tries to hide it.” 

“ Mine was a proper man, and one that need 
not have been ashamed to show his countenance 
among his fellows,” said he of the sash. “ This 
cannnot be the same, if indeed there be any on 
the coast. Is’t known, your honor, that the man 
is truly here ? ” 

“ Bo goes a rumor ; though so many idle tales 
have led me before to seek the smuggler where 
he was not, that I give but little faith to the re- 
port. — The periagua has the wind more at west, 
and the cloud in the mouth of the Raritan is 
breaking into scud. The alderman will have a 
lucky run of it ! ” 

“ And the gulls have gone more seaward — a 
certain sign of pleasant weather,” returned the 
other, glancing a quick but keen look over the 
horizon, in the offing. “ I believe our rover, with 
his light duck, has taken flight among them ! ” 

“ We will then go in pursuit. My ship is bound 
to sea ; and it is time, Master Tiller, that I know in 
what berth you are willing to serve the queen.” 

“ God hless her majesty ! Anne is a royal 
lady, and she had a lord high-admiral for her 
husband. As for a berth, sir, one always wishes 
to be captain, even though he may be compelled to 
eat his rations in the lee-scuppers. I suppose the 
first-lieutenancy is filled to your honor’s liking? ” 

“ Sirrah, this is trifling ; one of your years 
and experience need not be told that commissions 
are obtained by service.” 

“ Und er favor ; I confess the error. Captain 


MASTER TILLER’S CONDITIONS. 


31 


Ludlow, you are a man of honor, and will not de- 
ceive a sailor who puts trust in your word.” 

“Sailor or landsman, he is safe who has the 
gage.” 

“ Then, sir, I ask it. Suffer me to enter your 
ship ; to look into my future messmates, and to 
judge of their characters; to see if the vessel 
suits my humor ; and then to quit her, if I find it 
convenient.” 

“ Fellow,” said Ludlow, “ this impudence al- 
most surpasseth patience ! ” 

“ The request is reasonable, as can be shown,” 
gravely returned the unknown mariner. “ Now, 
Captain Ludlow of the Coquette would gladly tie 
himself, for better for worse, to a fair lady who 
has lately gone on the water, and yet there are 
thousands who might be had with less difficulty.” 

“ Still deeper and deeper in thy effrontery ! 
And what if this be true ? ” 

“Sir, a ship is a seaman’s mistress — nay, 
when fairly under a pennant, with a war declared, 
he may be said to be wedded to her, lawfully or 
not. He becomes ‘ bone of her bone, and flesh of 
her flesh, until death doth them part.’ To such a 
long compact there should be liberty of choice. 
Has not your mariner a taste as well as your lov- 
er ? The harpings and counter of his ship are 
the waist and shoulders ; the rigging, the ringlets ; 
the cut and fit of the sails, the fashion of the mil- 
linery ; the guns are always called the teeth, and 
her paint is the blush and bloom ! Here is a 
matter of choice, sir ; and, without leave to make 
it, I must wish your honor a happy cruise, and 
the queen a better servitor.” 

“ Why, Master Tiller,” cried Ludlow, laugh- 
ing, “ you trust too much to these stunted oaks, 
if you believe it exceeds my power to hunt you 
out of their cover at pleasure. But I take you at 
your word. The Coquette shall receive you on 
these conditions, and with the confidence that a 
first-rate city belle would enter a country ball- 
room.” 

“ I follow in your honor’s wake without more 
words,” returned he of the sash, for the first time 
respectfully raising his canvas cap to the young 
commander. “ Though not actually married, con- 
sider me a man betrothed.” 

It is not necessary to pursue the discourse 
between the two seamen any further. It was 
maintained, and with sufficient freedom on the 
part of the inferior, until they reached the shore 
and came in full view of the pennant of the 
queen, when, with the tact of an old man-of-war’s 
man, he threw into his manner all the respect 
that was usually required by the difference of 
rank. 


Half an hour later, the Coquette was rolling at 
a single anchor, as the puffs of wind came off the 
hills on her three topsails ; and shortly' after she 
was seen standing through the Narrows, with a 
fresh southwesterly breeze. In all these move- 
ments there was nothing to attract attention. 
Notwithstanding the sarcastic allusions of Aider- 
man Yan Beverout, the cruiser was far from be- 
ing idle ; and her passage outward was a circum- 
stance of so common occurrence, that it excited 
no comment among the boatmen of the bay and 
the coasters, who alone witnessed her departure. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far 
As that vast shore washed with the furthest sea, 

I would adventure for such merchandise.” 

Eomeo and Juliet. 

A happy mixture of land and water, seen by 
a bright moon, and beneath the sky of the fortieth 
degree of latitude, cannot fail to make a pleasing 
picture. Such was the landscape which the read- 
er must now endeavor to present to his mind. 

The wide estuary of Raritan is shut in from 
the winds and billows of the open sea by a long, 
low, and narrow cape, or point, which by a med- 
ley of the Dutch and English languages, that is 
by no means rare in the names of places that lie 
within the former territories of the United Prov- 
inces of Holland, is known by the name of Sandy 
Hook. This tongue of land appears to have been 
made by the unremitting and opposing actions of 
the waves on one side, and of the currents of the 
different rivers, that empty their waters into the 
bay, on the other. It is commonly connected 
with the low coast of New Jersey, to the south ; 
but there are periods of many years in succes- 
sion, during which there exists an inlet from the 
sea, between what may be termed the inner end of 
the cape and the main-land. During these periods, 
Sandy Hook of course becomes an island. Such 
was the fact at the time of which it is our busi- 
ness to write. 

The outer or ocean side of this low and nar- 
row bank of sand, is a smooth and regular beach, 
like that seen on most of the Jersey coast, while 
the inner is indented, in a manner to form sever- 
al convenient anchoring-grounds, for ships that 
seek a shelter from easterly gales. One of the 
latter is a circular and pretty cove, in which ves- 
sels of a light draught are completely embayed, 
and where they may in safety ride secure from 
any winds that blow. The harbor — or, as it is 


32 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


always called, the cove — lies at the point where 
the cape joins the main, and the inlet just named 
communicates directly with its waters whenever 
the passage is open. The Shrewsbury, a river of 
the fourth or fifth class, or, in other words, a 
stream of a few hundred feet in width, and of no 
great length, comes from the south, running near- 
ly parallel with the coast, and becomes a tributa- 
ry of the bay, also, at a point near the cove. 
Between the Shrewsbury and the sea, the land re- 
sembles that on the cape, being low and sandy, 
though not entirely without fertility. It is cov- 
ered with a modest growth of pines and oaks, 
where it is not either subject to the labors of the 
husbandman, or in natural meadow. But the 
western bank of the river is an abrupt and high 
acclivity, which rises to the elevation of a moun- 
tain. It was near the base of the latter that 
Alderman Van Beverout, for reasons that may be 
more fully developed as we proceed in our tale, 
had seen fit to erect his villa, which, agreeably to 
a usage of Holland, he had called the Lust in Rust ; 
an appellation that the merchant, who had read a 
few of the classics in his boyhood, was want to 
say meant nothing more nor less than “Otium 
cum dignitate.” 

If a love of retirement and a pure air had its 
influence in determining the selection of the 
burgher of Manhattan, be could not have made a 
better choice. The adjoining lands had been oc- 
cupied, early in the previous century, by a respect- 
able family of the name of Hartshorne, which con- 
tinues seated at the place to the present hour. 
The extent of their possessions served, at that 
day, to keep others at a distance. If to this fact 
be added the formation and quality of the ground, 
which was, at so early a period, of trifling value 
for agricultural purposes, it will be seen there 
was as little motive as there was opportunity for 
strangers to intrude. As to the air, it was re- 
freshed by the breezes of the ocean, which was 
scarcely a mile distant; while it had nothing to 
render it unhealthy or impure. With this sketch 
of the general features of the scene where so 
many of our incidents occurred, we shall proceed 
to describe the habitation of the alderman a little 
more in detail. 

The villa of the Lust in Rust was a low, irreg- 
ular edifice, in bricks, whitewashed to the color 
of the driven snow, and in a taste that was alto- 
gether Dutch. There were many gable% and 
weathercocks, a dozen small and twisted chim- 
neys, with numberless facilities that were intended 
for the nests of the storks. These airy sites 
were, however, untenanted, to the great admi- 
ration of the honest architect, who, like many 


others that bring with them into this hemisphere 
habits and opinions that are better suited to the 
other, never ceased expressing his surprise on the 
subject, though all the negroes of the neighbor- 
hood united in affirming there was no such bird in 
America. In front of the house there was a nar- 
row but an exceedingly neat lawn, encircled by 
shrubbery ; while two old elms that seemed coe- 
val with the mountain, grew in the rich soil of 
which the base of the latter was composed. Nor 
was there a want of shade on any part of the na- 
tural terrace that was occupied by the buildings. 
It was thickly sprinkled with fruit-trees, and 
here and there was a pine or an oak of the native 
growth. A declivity that was rather rapid, fell away 
in front to the level of the mouth of the river. In 
short, it was an ample but an unpretending coun- 
try-house, in which no domestic convenience had 
been forgotten ; while it had little to boast of in 
the way of architecture, except its rusty vanes 
and twisted chimneys. A few out-houses for the 
accommodation of the negroes, were nigh and 
nearer to the river ; there were bams and stables 
of dimensions and materials altogether superior 
to those that the appearance of arable land or the 
condition of the small farm would seem to render 
necessary. The periagua in which the proprietor 
had made his passage across the outer bay, lay 
at a small wooden wharf immediately below. 

For the earlier hours of the evening, the flash- 
ing of candles, and a general and noisy movement 
among the blacks, had denoted the presence of 
the master of the villa. But the activity had grad- 
ually subsided ; and, before the clock struck nine, 
the manner in which the lights were distributed, 
and the general silence, showed that the party, 
most probably fatigued with their journey, had 
already separated for the night. The clamor of 
the negroes had ceased, and the quiet of deep 
sleep was already prevailing among their humble 
dwellings. 

At the northern extremity of the villa, which, 
it will be remembered, leaned against the moun- 
tain, and facing the east, or fronting the river 
and the sea, there stood a little wing, even more 
deeply embowered in shrubbery and low trees, 
than the other parts of the edifice, and which 
was constructed altogether in a different style. 
This was a pavilion erected for the particular ac- 
commodation and at the cost of la belle Barb erie. 
Here the heiress of the two fortunes was accus- 
tomed to keep her own little menage during the 
weeks passed in the country; and here she 
amused herself in those pretty and feminine em- 
ployments that suited her years and tastes. In 
compliment to the beauty and origin of its inhab- 


A BOLD INTRUSION. 


33 


itant, the gallant Frar^ois had christened this par- 
ticular portion of the villa la Cour des Fees, a name 
that had got into general use, though somewhat 
corrupted in sound. 

On the present occasion the blinds of the 
principal apartment of the pavilion were open, 
and its mistress was still to be seen at one of the 
windows. Alida was at an age when the sex is 
most sensible of lively impressions, and she looked 
abroad on the loveliness of the landscape, and on 
the soft stillness of the night, with the pleasure 
that such a mind was wont to receive from ob- 
jects of natural beauty. 

There was a young moon, and a firmament 
glowing with a myriad of stars. The light was 
shed softly on the water, though here and there 
the ocean glittered with its rays. A nearly imper- 
ceptible, but what seamen call a heavy air, came 
off the sea, bringing with it the refreshing cool- 
ness of the hour. The surface of the immense 
waste was perfectly unruffled, both within and 
without the barrier of sand that forms the cape ; 
but the body of the element was heaving and 
settling heavily, in a manner to resemble the sleep- 
ing respiration of some being of huge physical 
frame. The roar of the surf, which rolled up in 
long and white curls upon the sands, was the only 
audible sound ; but that was heavy and incessant, 
Isometimes swelling on the air hollow and threat- 
ening, and at others dying in dull and distant 
murmurs on the ear. There was a charm in these 
varieties of sound, and in the solemn stillness of 
such a night, that drew Alida into her little bal- 
cony ; and she leaned forward beyond its shadow 
of sweet-brier, to gaze at a part of the bay that 
was not visible in the front view, from her win- 
dows. 

La belle Barberie smiled when she saw the 
dim masts and dark hull of a ship which was an- 
chored near the end of the cape, and within its 
protection. There was the look of womanly pride 
in her dark eye, and haply some consciousness of 
womanly power in the swell of her rich lip, while 
a taper finger beat the bar of the balcony rapidly, 
and without consciousness of its employment. 

“ The loyal Captain Ludlow has quickly ended 
his cruise ! ” said the maiden aloud, for she spoke 
under the influence of a triumph that was too 
natural to be suppressed. “I shall become a 
convert to my uncle’s opinions, and think the 
queen badly served.” 

“ He who serves one mistress faithfully has no 
light task,” returned a voice from among the 
shrubbery that grew beneath, and nearly veiled 
the window; “but he who is devoted to two, 
may well despair of success with both ! ” 

3 


Alida recoiled, and at the next instant she 
saw her place occupied by the commander of the 
Coquette. Before venturing to cross the low bar- 
rier that still separated him from the little parlor, 
the young man endeavored to read the eye of its 
occupant ; and then, either mistaking its expres- 
sion, or bold in his years or hopes, he entered the 
room. 

Though certainly unused to have her apart- 
ment scaled with so little ceremony, there was 
neither apprehension nor wonder in the counte- 
nance of the fair descendant of the Huguenot. 
The blood mantled more richly on her cheek, and 
the brightness of an eye that was never dull, in- 
creased, while her fine form became firm and 
commanding. 

“I have heard that Captain Ludlow gained 
much of his renown by gallantry in boarding,” 
she said, in a voice whose meaning admitted of 
no misconception ; “ but I had hoped his ambi- 
tion was satisfied with laurels so fairly won from 
the enemies of his country ! ” 

“A thousand pardons, fairest Alida,” inter- 
rupted the youth ; “ you know the obstacles that 
the jealous watchfulness of your uncle opposes 
to my desire to speak with you.” 

“ They are then opposed in vain, for Aider- 
man Tan Beverout has weakly believed the sex 
and condition of his ward would protect her from 
these coups-de-main .” 

“ Nay, Alida ; this is being more capricious 
than the winds ! You know too well how far 
my suit is unpleasant to your guardian, to torture 
a slight departure from cold observances into 
cause of serious complaint. I had hoped — per- 
haps, I should say, I have presumed on the con- 
tents of your letter, for which I return a thousand 
thanks ; but do not thus cruelly destroy expecta- 
tions that have so lately been raised beyond the 
point, perhaps, which reason may justify.” 

The glow, which had begun to subside on the 
face of la belle Barberie, again deepened, and for 
a moment it appeared as if her high self-depend- 
ence was a little weakened. After an instant of 
reflection, however, she answered steadily, though 
not entirely without emotion : 

“ Reason, Captain Ludlow, has limited female 
propriety within narrow limits,” she said. “ In 
answering your letter, I have consulted good- 
nature more than prudence ; and I find that you 
are not slow in causing me to repent the error.” 

“ If I ever cause you to repent confidence in 
me, sweet Alida, may disgrace in my profession^ 
and the distrust of the whole sex, be my punish- 
ment ! But, have I not reason to complain of 
this inconstancy on your part ? Ought I to ex- 


34 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


pect so severe a reprimand — severe, because cold 
and ironical — for an offence, venial as the wish 
to proclaim my gratitude ? ” 

“Gratitude!” repeated Alida, and this time 
her wonder was not feigned. “ The word is 
strong, sir ; and it expresses more than an act of 
courtesy, so simple as that which may attend the 
lending a volume of popular poetry can have any 
right to claim.” 

“ I have strangely misconceived the meaning 
of the letter, or this has been a day of folly ! ” 
said Ludlow, endeavoring to swallow his discon- 
tent. “ But, no ; I have your own words to re- 
fute that averted eye and cold look ; and, by the 
faith of a sailor, Alida, I will believe your delib- 
erate and well-reflected thoughts, before these 
capricious fancies, which are unworthy of your 
nature. Here are the very words; I shall not 
easily part with the flattering hopes they con- 
vey ! ” 

La belle Barberie now regarded the young 
man in open amazement. Her color changed; 
for of the indiscretion of writing she knew she 
was not guiltless — but of having written in terms 
to justify the confidence of the other, she felt no 
consciousness. The customs of the age, the pro- 
fession of her suitor, and the hour, induced her 
to look steadily into his face, to see whether the 
man stood before her in all the decency of his 
reason. But Ludlow had the reputation of being 
exempt from a vice that was then but too com- 
mon among seamen, and there was nothing in his 
ingenuous and really handsome features to cause 
her to distrust his present discretion. She touched 
a bell, and signed to her companion to be 
seated. 

“Francis,” said his mistress when the old 
valet, but half awake, entered the apartment, 
“ fais moi le plaisir de m’apporter de cette eau 
de la fontaine du bosquet, et du via — le Capitaine 
Ludlow a soif; et rappelle-toi, bon Francis, il 
ne faut pas deranger mon oncle & cette heure ; il 
doit 6trebien fatigue de son voyage.” 

When her respectful and respectable servitor 
had received his commission and departed, Alida 
took a seat herself, in the confidence of having de- 
prived the visit of Ludlow of its clandestine char- 
acter, and at the same time having employed the 
valet on an errand that would leave her sufficient 
leisure to investigate the inexplicable meaning of 
her companion. 

“ You have my word, Captain Ludlow, that 
this unseasonable appearance in the pavilion is 
indiscreet, not to call it cruel,” she said, so soon 
as they were again alone; “but that you have 
it, in any manner to justify your imprudence, 


I must continue to doubt until confronted by 
proof.” 

“ I had thought to have made a very different 
use of this,” returned Ludlow, drawing a letter — 
we admit it, with some reluctance in one so simple 
and so manly — from his bosom ; “ and even now 
I take shame in producing it, though at your own 
orders.” 

“Some magic has wrought a marvel, or the 
scrawl has no such importance,” observed Alida, 
taking a billet that she now began to repent pav- 
ing ever written. “ The language of politeness 
and female reserve must admit of strange perver- 
sions, or all who read are not the best interpret- 
ers.” 

La belle Barberie ceased speaking, for, the in- 
stant her eye fell on the paper, an absorbing and 
intense curiosity got the better of her resentment. 
We shall give the contents of the letter, precisely 
in the words which caused so much amazement 
and possibly some little uneasiness to the fair 
creature who was perusing it. 

“ The life of a seaman,” said the paper, in a 
delicate and beautiful female hand, “ is one of 
danger and exposure. It inspires confidence in 
woman, by the frankness to which it gives birth, 
and it merits indulgence by its privations. She 
who writes this, is not insensible to the merit of 
men of this bold calling. Admiration for the sea 
and for those who live on it, has been her weak- 
ness through life ; and her visions of the future, j 
like her recollections of the past, are not entirely 
exempt from a contemplation of its pleasures. 
The usages of different nations — glory in arms — 
change of scene — with constancy in the affections, 
all sweetened by affluence, are temptations too 
strong for a female imagination, and they should 
not be without their influence on the judgment 
of man. Adieu.” 

This note was read, reperused, and for the 
third time conned, ere Alida ventured to raise 
her eyes to the face of the expectant young 
man. 

“ And this indelicate and unfeminine rhapsody 
Captain Ludlow has seen proper to ascribe to 
me! ” she said, while her voice trembled between 
pride and mortification. 

“ To whom else can I impute it ? No other, 
lovely Alida, could utter language so charming, 
in words so properly chosen.” 

The long lashes of the maiden played quickly 
above their dark organs ; then, conquering feel- 
ings that were strangely in contradiction to each 
other, she said with dignity, turning to a little 
ebony escritoire which lay beside her dressing- 
box : 


ALIDA’S EXPLANATION. 


35 


u My correspondence is neither very impor- 
tant nor very extensive ; but such as it is, happi- 
ly for the reputation of the writer’s taste, if not 
for her sanity, I believe it is in my power to show 
the trifle I thought it decorous to write, in reply 
to your own letter. Here is a copy,” she added, 
opening what in fact was a draught, and reading 
aloud. 

“I thank Captain Ludlow for his attention in 
affording me an opportunity of reading a narra- 
tive of the cruel deeds of the buccaneers. In ad- 
dition to the ordinary feelings of humanity, one 
cannot but regret that men so heartless are to be 
found in a profession that is commonly thought 
to be generous and tender of the weak. We will 
however, hope, that the very wicked and coward- 
ly among seamen exist only as foils to render the 
qualities of the very bold and manly more con- 
spicuous. No one can be more sensible of this 
truth than the friends of Captain Ludlow” (the 
voice of Alida fell a little, as she came to this 
sentence), “ who has not now to earn a reputation 
for mercy. In return, I send the copy of the 
Cid, which honest Francis affirms to be superior 
to all other poems, not even excepting Homer — 
a book which I believe he is innocent of calum- 
niating, from ignorance of its contents. Again 
thanking Captain Ludlow for this instance of his 
( repeated attentions, I beg he will keep the volume 
until he shall return from his intended cruise.” 

“ This note is but a copy of the one you have, 
or ought to have,” said the niece of the alderman, 
as she raised her glowing face from leaning over 
the paper, “ though it is not signed, like that, 
with the name of Alida de Barberie.” 

When this explanation was over, both parties 
sat looking at each other in silent amazement. 
Still Alida saw, or thought she saw, that, notwith- 
standing the previous professions of her admirer, 
the young man rejoiced he had been deceived. 
Respect for delicacy and , reserve in the other 
sex is so general and so natural among men, that 
they who succeed the most in destroying its bar- 
riers, rarely fail to regret their triumph ; and he 
who truly loves can never long exult in any vio- 
lation of propriety in the object of his affections, 
even though the concession be made in his own 
favor. Under the influence of this commendable 
and healthful feeling, Ludlow, while he was in 
some respects mortified at the turn affairs had 
taken, felt sensibly relieved from a load of doubt, 
to which the extraordinary language of the letter 
he believed his mistress to have written, had 
given birth. His companion read the state of his 
mind in a countenance that was frank as face of 
sailor could be ; and, though secretly pleased to 


gain her former place in his respect, she was also 
vexed and wounded that he had ever presumed to 
distrust her reserve. She still held the inexpli- 
cable billet, and her eyes naturally sought the 
lines. A sudden thought seemed to strike her 
mind, and, returning the paper, she said, coldly: 

“ Captain Ludlow should know his correspond- 
ent better ; I much mistake if this be the first 
of her communications.” 

The young man colored to the temples and 
hid his face, for a moment, in the hollow of his 
hands. 

“ You admit the truth of my suspicions,” con- 
tinued la belle Barberie, “ and cannot be insensi- 
ble of my justice, when I add that henceforth — ” 

“ Listen to me, Alida,” cried the youth, half 
breathless in his haste to interrupt a decision 
that he dreaded; “hear me, and, as Heaven is 
my judge, you shall hear only truth. I confess 
this is not the first of the letters, written in the 
same hand — perhaps I should say in the same 
spirit — but, on the honor of a loyal officer, I af- 
firm that until circumstances led me to think my- 
self so happy — so — very happy — ” 

“ I understand you, sir ; the work was anony- 
mous, until you saw fit to inscribe my name as 
its author. Ludlow ! Ludlow ! how meanly you 
have thought of the woman you profess to 
love ! ” 

“ That were impossible ! I mingle little with 
those who study the finesse of life ; and loving, 
as I do, my noble profession, Alida, was it so 
unnatural to believe that another might view it 
with'the same eyes ? But since you disavow the 
letter — nay, your disavowal is unnecessary — I see 
my vanity has even deceived me in the writing — 
but, since the delusion is over, I confess that I re- 
joice it is not so.” 

La belle Barberie smiled, and her counte- 
nance grew brighter. She enjoyed the triumph 
of knowing that she merited the respect of her 
suitor, and it was a triumph heightened by recent 
mortification. Then succeeded a pause of more 
than a minute. The embarrassment of the si- 
lence was happily interrupted by the return of 
Fran?ois. 

“Mam’selle Alide, voici de l’eau de la fon- 
taine,” said the valet ; “ mais, monsieur votre on- 
cle s’est couche, et il a mis la clef de la cave au 
vin dessous son oreiller. Ma foi, ce n’est pas 
facile d’avoir du bon vin du tout, en Amerique, 
mais apres que monsieur le maire s’est couch6, 
e’est toujours impossible ; voila ! ” 

“N’importe, raon cher ; le capitaineva partir, 
et il n’a plus soif.” 

“ Dere is assez de jin,” continued the valet, 


36 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


who felt for the captain’s disappointment, “mais, 
Monsieur Loodle have du gout, an’ he n’aime pas 
so strong liqueur.” 

“He has swallowed already more than was 
necessary for one occasion,” said Alida, smiling 
on her admirer in a manner that left him doubt- 
ful whether he ought most to repine or to rejoice. 
“ Thank you, good Francis ; your duty for the 
night shall end with lighting the captain to the 
door.” 

Then, saluting the young commander in a 
manner that would not admit of denial, la belle 
Barberie dismissed her lover and the valet to- 
gether. 

“You have a pleasant office, Monsieur Fran- 
cois,” said the former, as he was lighted to the 
outer door of the pavilion ; “ it is one that many 
a gallant gentleman would envy.” 

“Oui, sair — it be grand plaisir to serve Mam- 
’selle Alide. Je porte de fan, de book, mais 
quant au vin, Monsieur le Capitaine, parole 
d’honneur, c’est toujours impossible apres que 
1’aldermain s’est couche.” 

“ Ay — the book— I think you had the agree- 
able duty, to-day, of carrying the book of la 
Belle ? ” 

“ Yraiment, oui ! ’Twas ouvrage de Monsieur 
Pierre Corneille. On pretend, que Monsieur 
Shak-a-spear en a emprunte d’assez beaux senti- 
ments ! ” 

“And the paper between the leaves? — you 
were charged also with that note, good Fran- 
cis ? ” 

The valet paused, shrugged his shoulders, and 
laid one of his long yellow fingers on the plane 
of an enormous aquiline nose, while he seemed to 
muse. Then shaking his head perpendicularly, 
he preceded the captain as before, muttering as 
usual, half in French and half in English : 

“ For le papier, I know rien du tout ; c’est 
bien possible, parceque, voyez vous, Monsieur le 
Capitaine, Mam’selle Alide did say, prenez-y 
garde ; but I no see him, depuis. Je suppose 
’twas beaux compliments Merits on de vers of M. 
Pierre Corneille. Quel g6nie que celui de cet 
homme lk ! — n’est ce pas, monsieur ? ” 

“It is of no consequence, good Francis,” 
said Ludlow, slipping a guinea into the hands of 
the valet. “ If you should ever discover what be- 
came of that paper, however, you will oblige me 
by letting me know. Good-night ; mes devoirs 
k la Belle ! ” 

“Bon soir, Monsieur le Capitaine; c’est un 
brave monsieur que celui-lk, et de tres bonne 
famUle! II n’a pas de si grandes terres, que 
Monsieur le Patteroon, pourtant, on dit, qu’il doit 


avoir de jolies maisons et assez de rentes pu- 
bliques ! J’aime k servir un si gdnereux et loyal 
maitre, mais, malheureusement, il est marin ! 
M. de Barberie n’avait pas trop d’amitie pour les 
gens de cette profession lk.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ Well, Jessica, go in ; 

Perhaps, I will return immediately : 

Do as I hid you, 

Shut doors after you ; Past bind, fast find ; 

A proverb never stale, in thrifty mind.” 

Merciiant op Venice. 

The decision with which la demoiselle Barberie 
had dismissed her suitor, was owing to some 
consciousness that she had need of opportunity to 
reflect on the singular nature of the events which 
had just happened, no less than to a sense of the 
impropriety of his visiting her at that hour, and 
in a manner so equivocal. But, like others who 
act from feverish impulses, when alone the maiden 
repented of her precipitation-; and she remem- 
bered fifty questions which might aid in clear- 
ing the affair of its mystery, that she would now 
gladly put. It was too late, however, for she had 
heard Ludlow take his leave, and had listened, in 
breathless silence, to his footstep, as he passed 
the shrubbery of her little lawn. Francis reap- 
peared at the door, to repeat his wishes for her 
rest and happiness, and then she believed she was 
finally alone for the night, since the ladies of that 
age and country were little apt to require the as- 
sistance of their attendants, in assuming or in 
divesting themselves of their ordinary attire. 

It was still early, and the recent interview had 
deprived Alida of all inclination for sleep. She 
placed the lights in a distant corner of the apart- 
ment, and approached a window. The moon had 
so far changed its position as to cast a different 
light upon the water. The hollow washing of the 
surf, the dull but heavy breathing of the air from 
the sea, and the soft shadows of the trees and 
mountain, were much the same. The Coquette 
lay, as before, at her anchor near the cape, and 
the Shrewsbury glittered toward the south, until 
its surface was concealed by the projection of a 
high and nearly perpendicular bluff. 

The stillness was profound, for, with the ex- 
ception of the dwelling of the family who occu- 
pied the estate nearest the villa, there was no 
other habitation within some miles of the place. 
Still the solitude of the situation was undisturbed 
by any appehension of danger, or any tradition 
of violence from rude and lawless men. The 


A STRANGE VESSEL. 


37 


peaceable character of the colonists who dwelt 
in the interior country was proverbial, and their 
habits simple ; while the ocean was never entered 
by those barbarians who then rendered some of 
the seas of the other hemisphere as fearful as 
they were pleasant. 

Notwithstanding this known and customary 
character of tranquillity, and the lateness of the 
hour, Alida had not been many moments in her 
balcony before she heard the sound of oars. The 
stroke was measured, and the noise low and dis- 
tant, but it was too familiar to be mistaken. She 
wondered at the expedition of Ludlow, who was 
not accustomed to show such haste in quitting 
her presence, and leaned over the railing to catch 
a glimpse of his departing boat. Each moment 
she expected to see the little bark issue from out 
of the shadows of the land, into the sheet of 
brightness which stretched nearly to the cruiser. 
She gazed long, and in vain, for no barge appeared, 
yet the sound had become inaudible. A light 
still hung at the peak of the Coquette, a sign that 
the commander was out of his vessel. 

The view of a fine ship, seen by the aid of 
the moon, with its symmetry of spars and its deli- 
cate tracery of cordage, and the heavy and grand 
movements of the hull as it rolls on the sluggish 
billows of a calm sea, is ever a pleasing and in- 
j deed an imposing spectacle. Alida knew that 
more than a hundred human beings slept within 
the black and silent mass, and her thoughts in- 
; sensibly wandered to the business of their daring 
| lives, their limited abode, and yet wandering ex- 
istence, their frank and manly qualities, their de- 
; votion to the cause of those who occupied the 
: land, their broken and interrupted connection 
with the rest of the human family, and finally to 
those weakened domestic ties, and to that reputa- 
tion for inconstancy, which are apparently a nat- 
ural consequence of all. She sighed, and her 
j eye wandered from the ship to that ocean on 
which it was constructed to dwell. From the dis- 
tant, low, and nearly imperceptible shore of the 
island of Nassau, to the coast of New Jersey, 
there was one broad and untenanted waste. Even 
the sea-fowl rested his tired wing, and slept tran- 
quilly on the water. The broad space appeared 
like some great and unfrequented desert, or rather 
like a denser and more material copy of the fir- 
mament by which it was canopied. 

It has been mentioned that a stunted growth 
of oaks and pines covered much of the sandy 
ridge that formed the cape. The same covering 
furnished a dark setting to the waters of the 
cove. Above this outline of wood, which fringed 
the margin of the sea, Alida now fancied she saw 


an object in motion. At first, she believed some 
ragged and naked tree, of which the coast had 
many, was so placed as to deceive her vision, 
and had thrown its naked lines upon the back- 
ground of water, in a manner to assume the shape 
and tracery of a light-rigged vessel. But when 
the dark and symmetrical spars were distinctly 
seen, gliding past objects that were known to be 
stationary, it was impossible to doubt their char- 
acter. The maiden wondered, and her surprise^ 
was not unmixed with apprehension. It seemed 
as if the stranger, for such the vessel must needs 
be, was recklessly approaching a surf that, in its 
most tranquil moments, was dangerous to such a 
fabric, and that he steered, unconscious of hazard, 
directly upon the land. Even the movement was 
mysterious and unusual. Sails there were none ; 
and yet the light and lofty spars were soon hid 
behind a thicket that covered a knoll near the 
margin of the sea. Alida expected, each moment, 
to hear the cry of mariners in distress ; then, as 
the minutes passed on and no such fearful sound 
interrupted the stillness of the night, she began 
to bethink her of those lawless rovers, who were 
known to abound among the Caribbean isles, and 
and who were said sometimes even to enter and 
to refit in the smaller and more secret inlets of 
the American Continent. The tales, coupled 
with the deeds, character, and fate of the notori- 
ous Kidd, were then still recent, and although 
magnified and colored by vulgar exaggerations, 
as all such tales are known to be, enough was 
believed, by the better instructed, to make his 
life and death the subject of many curious and 
mysterious rumors. At this moment, she would 
have gladly recalled the young commander of the 
Coquette, to apprise him of the enemy that was 
nigh ; then, ashamed of terrors that she was fain 
to hope savored more of woman’s weakness than 
of truth, she endeavored to believe the whole 
some ordinary movement of a coaster, who, famil- 
iar with his situation, could not possibly be either 
in want of aid, or an object of alarm. Just as this 
natural and consoling conclusion crossed her 
mind, she very audibly heard a step in her pavil- 
ion. It seemed near the door of the room she 
occupied. Breathless, more with the excitement 
of her imagination, than with any actual fear 
created by this new cause of alarm, the maiden 
quitted the balcony, and stood motionless to lis- 
ten. The door, in truth, was opened with singu- 
lar caution, and, for an instant, Alida saw nothing 
but a confused area, in the centre of which ap- 
peared the figure of a menacing and rapacious 
freebooter. 

“Northern lights and moonshine ! ” growled 


38 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


Alderman Yan Beverout, for it was no other than 
the uncle of the heiress, whose untimely and un- 
expected visit had caused her so much alarm. 
“This sky-watching, and turning of night into 
day, will be the destruction of thy beauty, niece ; 
and we shall see how plenty patroons are for 
husbands ! A bright eye and a blooming cheek 
are thy stock in trade, girl ; and she is a spend- 
thrift of both who is out of her bed when the 
clock hath struck ten.” 

“Your discipline would deprive many a beauty 
of the means of using her power,” returned la 
demoiselle, smiling as much at the folly of her 
recent fears, as with affection for her reprover. 
“ They tell me that ten is the witching time of 
night, for the necromancy of the dames of Europe.” 

“ Witch me no witches ! The name reminds 
one of the cunning Yankees, a race that would 
outwit Lucifer himself, if left to set the conditions 
to their bargain. Here is the patroon, wishing to 
let in a family of the knaves among the honest 
Dutchmen of his manor ; and we have just settled 
a dispute between us, on this subject, by making 
the lawful trial.” 

“Which, it may be proper to hope, dearest 
uncle, was not the trial by battle? ” 

“ Peace and olive-branches, no ! The patroon 
of Kinderhook is the last man in the Americas 
that is likely to suffer by the blows of Myndert 
Yan Beverout. I challenged the boy to hold a 
fine eel, that the blacks have brought out of the 
river to help in breaking our morning fasts, that 
it might be seen if he were fit to deal with the 
slippery rogues. By the merit of the peaceable 
St. Nicholas ! but the son of old Hendrick Yan 
Staats had a busy time of it ! The lad griped 
the fish, as the ancient tradition has it that thy 
uncle clinched the Holland florin, when my father 
put it between my fingers, within the month, in 
order to see if the true saving grace was likely to 
abide in the family for another generation. My 
heart misgave me for a moment ; for young Oloff 
has the fist of a vise, and I thought the goodly 
names of the Harmans and Rips, Corneliuses and 
Dircks of the manor rent-roll were likely to be 
contaminated by the company of an Increase or 
a Peleg ; but, just as the patroon thought he had 
the watery viper by the throat, the fish gave an 
unexpected twist, and slid through his fingers by 
the tail. Flaws and loop-holes ! but that experi- 
ment has as much wisdom as wit in it ! ” 

“And to me, it seemeth better, now that 
Providence has brought all the colonies under one 
government, that these prejudices should be for- 
gotten. We are a people sprung from many na- 
tions, and our effort should be to preserve the 


liberality and intelligence, while we forget the 
weaknesses of all.” 

“ Bravely said, for the child of a Huguenot ! 
But I defy the man who brings prejudice to my 
door. I like a merry trade, and a quick cal- 
culation. Let me see the man in all New Eng- 
land that can tell the color of a balance-sheet 
quicker than one that can be named, and I’ll 
gladly hunt up the satchel and go to school again. 

I love a man the better for looking to his own in- 
terests, I ; and yet, common honesty teaches us 
that there should be a convention between men, 
beyond which none of reputation and character 
ought to go.” 

“ Which convention shall be understood, by 
every man, to be the limits of hi3 own faculties ; 
by which means the dull may rival the quick 
of thought. I fear me, uncle, there should be 
an eel kept on every coast to which a trader i 
comes ! ” 

“Prejudice and conceit, child, acting on a ; 
drowsy head ; ’tis time thou seekest thy pillow, 
and in the morning we shall see if young Oloff of 
the manor shall have better success with thy fa- 
vor, than with the prototype of the Jonathans. 
Here, put out these flaring candles, and take a 
modest lamp to light thee to thy bed. Glaring 
windows, so near midnight, give a house an ex- 
travagant name in the neighborhood.” 

“ Our reputation for sobriety may suffer in 
the opinion x>f the eels,” returned Alida, laughing, 

“ but here are few others, I believe, to call us 
dissipated.” 

“ One never knows, one never knows,” mut- 
tured the alderman, extinguishing the two large 
candles of his niece, and substituting his own lit- 
tle hand-lamp in their place. “This broad light 
only invites to wakefuluess, while the dim taper 
I leave is good as a sleeping draught. Kiss me, 
wilful one, and draw thy curtains close, for the 
negroes will soon rise to load the periagua, that 
they may go up with the tide to the city. The 
noise of the chattering blackguards may disturb 
thy slumbers.” 

“ Truly, it would seem there is little here to 
invite such active navigation,” returned Alida, sa- 
luting the cheek of her uncle, at his order. “ The 
love of trade must be strong, when it finds the 
materials of commerce in a solitude like this.” 

“ Thou hast divined the reason, child. Thy 
father, Monsieur de Barberie, had his peculiar 
opinions upon the subject, and doubtless he did 
not fail to transmit some of them to his offspring. 
And yet, when the Huguenot was driven from his 
chateau and his clayey Norman lands, the man 
had no distaste himself for an account-current, 


THE BRIGANTINE AT ANCHOR. 


provided the balance was in his own favor. Na- 
tions and characters ! I find but little difference, 
after all, in trade, whether it be driven with a 
Mohawk for his pack of furs, or with a seigneur, 
who has been driven from his lands. Each strives 
to get the profit on his own side of the account, 
and the loss on that of his neighbor. So rest 
thee well, girl ; and remember that matrimony is 
no more than a capital bargain, on whose success 
depends the sum total of a woman’s comfort — and 
so, once more, good-night,” 

La belle Barberie attended her uncle dutifully 
[ to the door of her pavilion, which she bolted after 
him ; and then, finding her little apartment gloomy 
S by the light of the small and feeble lamp he had 
| left, she was pleased to bring its flame in con- 
tact with the wicks of the two candles he had just 
1 extinguished. Placing the three near each other 
I on a table, the maiden again drew nigh a window. 

| The unexpected interview with the alderman had 
j consumed several minutes, and she was curious 
to know more of the unaccountable movements of 
i the mysterious vessel. 

The same deep silence reigned about the villa, 

| and the slumbering ocean was heaving and setting 
! as heavily as before. Alida again looked for the 
! boat of Ludlow ; but her eye ran over the whole 
[ distance of the bright and broad streak between 
her and the cruiser in vain. There was the 
slight ripple of the water in the glittering of the 
moon’s rays, but no speck like that the barge 
would make was visible. The lantern still shone 
at the cruiser’s peak. Once, indeed, she thought 
the sound of oars was again to be heard, and 
much nearer than before ; yet ho effort of her 
quick and roving sight could detect the position 
of the boat. To all these doubts succeeded an 
alarm which sprang from a new and very differ- 
ent source. 

The existence of the inlet which united the 
ocean with the waters of the cove was but little 
known, except to the few whose avocations kept 
. them near the spot. The pass being much more 
than half the time closed, its varying character, 
and the little use that could be made of it under 
any circumstances, prevented the place from being 
a subject of general interest with the coasters. 
Even when open, the depth of its water was un- 
certain, since a week or two of calms, or of west- 
erly winds, would permit the tides to clean its 
channel, while a single easterly gale was sufficient 
to choke the entire inlet with sand. No wonder, 
then, that Alida felt an amazement which was not 
quite free from superstitious alarm, when, at that 
hour and in such a scene, she saw a vessel glid- 
ing, as it were, unaided by sails or sweeps, out 


39 

of the thicket that fringed the ocean-side of the 
cove, into its very centre. 

The strange and mysterious craft was a brigan- 
tine of that mixed construction, which is much 
used even in the most ancient and classical seas 
of the other hemisphere, and which is supposed 
to unite the advantages of both a square and of a 
fore-and-aft rigged vessel, but which is nowhere 
seen to display the same beauty of form, and sym- 
metry of equipment, as on the coasts of this 
Union. The first and smallest of its masts had 
all the complicated machinery of a ship, with its 
superior and inferior spars, its wider reaching, 
though light and manageable yards, and its va- 
rious sails, shaped and arranged to meet every 
vicissitude and caprice of the winds ; while the 
latter, or larger of the two, rose like the straight 
trunk of a pine from the hull, simple in its cord- 
age, and spreading a single sheet of canvas, that 
in itself was sufficient to drive the fabric with vast 
velocity through the water. The hull was low, 
graceful in its outlines, dark as the raven’s wing, 
and so modelled as to float on its element like a 
sea-gull riding the billows. There were many 
delicate and attenuated lines among its spars, 
which were intended to spread broader folds of 
canvas to the light airs when necessary; but 
these additions to the tracery of the machine, 
which added so much to its beauty by day, were 
now, seen as it was by the dimmer and more 
treacherous rays of the moon, scarcely visible. 
In short, as the vessel had entered the cove float- 
ing with the tide, it was so singularly graceful 
and fairy -like in form, that Alida at first was fain 
to discredit her senses, and to believe it no more 
than some illusion of the fancy. Like most 
others, she was ignorant of the temporary inlet, 
and, under the circumstances, it was not difficult 
to lend a momentary credence to so pleasing an 
idea. 

But the delusion was only momentary. The 
brigantine turned in its course, and, gliding into 
the part of the cove where the curvature of the 
shores offered most protection from the winds 
and waves, and perhaps from curious eyes, its 
motion ceased. A heavy plunge in the water 
was audible even at the villa, and Alida then 
knew that an anchor had fallen into the bay. 

Although the coast of North America offered 
little to invite lawless depredation, and it was in 
general believed to be so safe, yet the possibility 
that cupidity might be invited by the retired situ- 
ation of her uncle’s villa did not fail to suggest 
itself to the mind of the young heiress. Both 
she and her guardian were reputed to be wealthy ; 
and disappointment on the open sea might drive 


40 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


desperate men to the commission of crimes that 
in more prosperous moments would not suggest 
themselves. The freebooters were said to have 
formerly visited the coast of the neighboring isl- 
and, and men were just then commencing those 
excavations for hidden treasures and secreted 
booty which have been, at distant intervals, con- 
tinued to our own time. 

There are situations, in which the mind insen- 
sibly gives credit to impressions that the reason 
in common disapproves. The present was one in 
which Alida de Barberie, though of a resolute 
and even a masculine understanding, felt disposed 
to believe there might be truth in those tales 
that she had hitherto heard only to deride. 
Still keeping her eye on the motionless vessel, 
she drew back into her window, and wrapped the 
curtain round her form, undecided whether to 
alarm the family or not, and acting under a vague 
impression that, though so distant, her person 
might be seen. She was hardly thus secreted, 
before the shrubbery was violently agitated, a 
footstep was heard in the lawn beneath her win- 
dow, and one leaped so lightly into the balcony, 
and from the balcony into the centre of the room, 
that the passage of the figure seemed like the flit- 
ting of some creature of supernatural attributes. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Why look you, how you stare 1 

I would he friends with you, and have your love.’' 

Shtlock. 

The first impulse of Alida, at this second in- 
vasion of her pavilion, was certainly to flee. But 
timidity was not her weakness, and as natural 
firmness gave her time to examine the person of 
the individual who had so unceremoniously en- 
tered, curiosity aided in inducing her to remain. 
Perhaps a vague but a very natural expectation 
that she was again to dismiss the commander of 
the Coquette, had its influence on her first deci- 
sion. In order that the reader may judge how 
far this boldness was excusable, we shall describe 
the person of the intruder. 

The stranger was one in the very bud of 
young and active manhood. His years could not 
have exceeded two-and-twenty, nor would he 
probably have been thought so old, had not his 
features been shaded by a rich brown hue, that 
in some degree served as a foil to a natural com- 
plexion which, though never fair, was still clear 
and blooming. A pair of dark, bushy, and jet- 
black silken whiskers, that were in singular con- 


trast to eyelashes and brows of feminine beauty 
and softness, aided also in giving a decided ex- 
pression to a face that might otherwise have 
been wanting in some of that character which is 
thought essential to the comeliness of man. The 
forehead was smooth and low ; the nose, though 
prominent and bold in outline, of exceeding deli- 
cacy in detail ; the mouth and lips full, a little 
inclined to be arch, though the former appeared 
as if it might at times be pensive ; the teeth were 
even and unsullied, and the chin was small, round, 
dimpled, and so carefully divested of the distin- 
guishing mark of the sex, that one could fancy 
Nature had contributed all its growth to adorn 
the neighboring cheeks and temples. If to these 
features be added a pair of full and brilliant coal- 
black eyes, that appeared to vary their expres- 
sion at their master’s will, the reader will at once 
see that the privacy of Alida had been invaded 
by one whose personal attractions might, under 
other circumstances, have been dangerous to the 
imagination of a female whose taste was in some 
degree influenced by a standard created by her 
own loveliness. 

The dress of the stranger was as unique as 
his personal attractions were extraordinary. The 
fashion of the garments resembled that of those 
already described as worn by the man who has an- 
nounced himself as Master Tiller ; but the materi- 
als were altogether richer, and, judging only from 
the exterior, more worthy of the wearer. 

The light frock was of a thick purple silk, of 
an Indian manufacture, cut with exceeding care to 
fit the fine outlines of a form that was rather 
round than square, active than athletic. The 
loose trousers were of a fine white jean, the cap of 
scarlet velvet, ornamented with gold, and the body 
was belted with a large cord of scarlet silk, 
twisted in the form of a ship’s cable. At the 
ends of the latter, little anchors wrought in bull- 
ion were attached as gay and fitting append- 
ages. . 

In contrast to an attire so whimsical and un- 
common, however, a pair of small and richly- 
mounted pistols were at the stranger’s girdle ; and 
the haft of a curiously-carved Asiatic dagger was 
seen projecting rather ostentatiously from be- 
tween the folds of the upper garment. 

“ What cheer ! what cheer ! ” cried a voice, 
that was more in harmony with the appearance 
of the speaker than with the rough, professional 
salutation he uttered, so soon as he had fairly 
landed in the centre of Alida’s little saloon. 
“ Come forth, my dealer in the covering of the 
beaver, for here is one who brings gold to thy 
coffers. Ha ! now that this trio of lights hath done 


AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 


41 


its office, it may be extinguished, lest it pilot 
others to the forbidden haven ! ” 

“Your pardon, sir,” said the mistress of the 
pavilion, advancing from behind the curtain with 
an air of coolness that her beating heart had nigh 
betrayed, to be counterfeit ; “ having so unex- 
pected a guest to entertain, the additional candles 
are necessary.” 

The start, recoil, and evident alarm of the 
intruder, lent Alida a little more assurance ; for 
courage is a quality that appears to gain force in 
a degree proportioned to the amount in which it 
is abstracted .from the dreaded object. Still, 
when she saw a hand on a pistol, the maiden was 
again about to flee ; nor was her resolution to re- 
main confirmed until she met the mild and allur- 
ing eye of the intruder, as, quitting his hold of 
the weapon, he advanced with an air so mild and 
graceful as to cause generosity to take the place 
of fear. 

“Though Alderman Van Beverout be not 
punctual to his appointment,” said the gay young 
stranger, “ he has more than atoned for his ab- 
sence by the substitute he sends. I hope she 
comes authorized to arrange the whole of our 
treaty ? ” 

“ I claim no right to hear or to dictate in mat- 
ters not my own. My utmost powers extend to 
expressing a desire that this pavilion may be ex- 
empt from the discussion of affairs as much be- 
yond my knowledge as they are separated from 
my interests.” 

“ Then why this signal ? ” demanded the 
stranger, pointing with a serious air to the lights 
that still burned near each other in face of an 
open window. “It is awkward to mislead in 
transactions that are so delicate ! ” 

“Your allusion, sir, is not understood. These 
lights are no more than what are usually seen in 
my apartment at this hour, with, indeed, the ad- 
dition of a lamp left by my uncle, Alderman Van 
Beverout.” 

“ Your uncle ! ” exclaimed the other, advan- 
cing so near Alida as to cause her to retire a step, 
his countenance expressing a deep and newly- 
awakened interest— “ your uncle ! This, then, is 
one far-famed and justly extolled, la belle Barbe- 
rie ! ” he added, gallantly lifting his cap, as if he 
had just discovered the condition and the unusual 
personal attractions of his companion. 

It was not in nature for Alida to be displeased. 
All her fancied causes of terror were forgotten ; 
for, in addition to their improbable and uncertain 
nature, the stranger had sufficiently given her to 
understand that he was expected by her uncle. 
If we add that the singular attraction and soft- 


ness of his face and voice aided in quieting her 
fears, we shall probably do no violence either to 
the truth or to a very natural feeling. Profound- 
ly ignorant of the details of commerce, and ac- 
customed to hear its mysteries extolled as exer- 
cising the keenest and best faculties of man, she 
saw nothing extraordinary in those who were ac- 
tively engaged in the pursuit having reason for 
concealing their movements from the jealousy and 
rivalry of competitors. Like most of her sex, she 
had great dependence on the characters of those 
she loved; and, though nature, education, and 
habit, had created a striking difference between 
the guardian and his ward, their harmony had 
never been interrupted by any breach of affec- 
tion. 

“ This, then, is la belle Barberie ! ” repeated 
the young sailor, for such his dress denoted him 
to be, studying her features with an expression 
of face in which pleasure vied with evident and 
touching melancholy. “Fame hath done no in- 
justice, for here is all that might justify the folly 
or madness of man ! ” 

“ This is familiar dialogue for an utter stran- 
ger,” returned Alida, blushing, though the quick 
dark eye that seemed to fathom all her thoughts 
saw it was not in anger. “ I do not deny that 
the partiality of friends, coupled with my origin, 
have obtained the appellation, which is given, 
however, more in playfulness than in any serious 
opinion of its being merited ; and now, as the 
hour is getting late, and this visit is at least un- 
usual, you will permit me to seek my uncle.” 

“ Stay ! ” interrupted the stranger — “ it is 
long — very long, since so soothing, so gentle a 
pleasure has been mine ! This is a life of mys- 
teries, beautiful Alida, though its incidents seem 
so vulgar, and of every-day occurrence. There is 
mystery in its beginning and its end ; in its im- 
pulses ; its sympathies and all its discordant pas- 
sions. No, do not quit me. I am from off the 
sea, where none but coarse and vulgar-minded 
men have long been my associates ; and thy pres- 
ence is a balm to a bruised and wounded spirit.” 

Interested, if possible, more by the touching 
and melancholy tones of the speaker, than by his 
extraordinary language, Alida hesitated. Her 
reason told her that propriety, and even pru- 
dence, required she should apprise her uncle of the 
stranger’s presence ; but propriety and prudence 
lose much of their influence, when female curiosi- 
ty is sustained by a secret and powerful sympa- 
thy. Her own eloquent eye met the open and 
imploring look of organs that seemed endowed 
with the fabled power to charm ; and, while her 
judgment told her there was so much to alarm, 


42 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


her senses pleaded powerfully in behalf of the 
gentle mariner. 

“ An expected guest of my uncle will have 
leisure to repose, after the privations and hard- 
ships of so weary a voyage,” she said. “ This is 
a house whose door is never closed against the 
rites of hospitality.” 

“ If there is aught about my person or attire 
to alarm you,” returned the stranger, earnestly, 
“ speak, that it may be cast away ; these arms — 
these foolish arms, had better not have been 
here,” he added, casting the pistols and dagger 
indignantly through a window, into the shrub- 
bery ; “ ah ! if you knew how unwillingly I would 
harm any — and, least of all, a woman — you would 
not fear me.” 

“I fear you not,” returned la Belle, firmly. 
“ I dread the misconceptions of the world.” 

“ What world is here to disturb us ? Thou 
livest in thy pavilion, beautiful Alida, remote 
from towns and envy, like some favored damsel, 
over whose happy and charmed life presides a 
benignant genius. See, here are all the pretty 
materials with which thy sex seeks innocent 
and happy amusement. Thou touchest this lute, 
when melancholy renders thought pleasing ; here 
are colors to mock, or to eclipse, the beauties of 
the fields and the mountains, the flower, and the 
tree ; and from these pages are culled thoughts, 
pure and rich in imagery, as thy spirit is spotless 
and thy person lovely ! ” 

Alida listened in amazement; for, while he 
spoke, the young mariner touched the different 
articles he named, with a melancholy interest, 
which seemed to say how deeply he regretted 
that Fortune had placed him in a profession in 
which their use was nearly denied. 

“It is not common for those who live on the 
sea to feel this interest in the trifles which con- 
stitute a woman’s pleasure,” she said, lingering, 
spite of her better resolution to depart. 

“ The spirit of our rude and boisterous trade 
is then known to you? ” 

“It were not possible for the relation of a 
merchant, so extensively known as my uncle, to 
be ignorant altogether of mariners.” 

“ Ay, here is proof of it,” returned the stran- 
ger, speaking so quick as again to betray how 
sensitively his mind was constructed. “ The 
1 History of the American Buccaneers,’ is a rare 
book to be found in a lady’s library! What 
pleasure can a mind like that of la belle Barberie 
find in these recitals of bloody violence ? ” 

“What pleasure, truly!” returned Alida, 
half tempted, by the wild and excited eye of her 
companion, notwithstanding all the contradictory 


evidence which surrounded him, to believe she was 
addressing one of the very rovers in question. 

“ The book was lent me by a brave seaman, who 
holds himself in readiness to repress their depre- 
dations ; and, while reading of so much wicked- 
ness, I endeavor to recall the devotion of those 
who risk their lives, in order to protect the weak 
and innocent. — My uncle will be angered, should 
I longer delay to apprise him of your presence.” 

“ A single moment ! It is long — very long, 
since I have entered a sanctuary like this ! Here 
is music, and there the frame for the gaudy tam- 
bour — these windows look on a landscape, soft 
as thine own nature ; and yonder ocean can be 
admired without dreading its terrific power, or 
feeling'disgust at its coarser scenes. Thou shouldst 
be happy here.” 

The stranger turned and perceived that he 
was alone. Disappointment was strongly painted 
on his handsome face ; but, ere there was time 
for second thought, another voice was heard 
grumbling at the door of the saloon. 

“ Compacts and treaties ! What, in the name 
of good faith, hath brought thee hither ? Is this 
the way to keep a cloak on our movements ? or 
dost suppose that the queen will knight me, for 
being known as thy correspondent ? ” 

“ Lanterns and false beacons ! ” returned the 
other, mimicking the voice of the discontented 
burgher, and pointing to the lights that still stood 
where last described. “ Can the port be en- 
tered without respecting the land -marks and 
signals ? ” 

“ This comes of moonlight and sentiment ! 
When the girl should have been asleep, she is up 
gazing at the stars, and disconcerting a burgher’s 
speculations. — But fear thee not, Master Seadrift ; 
my niece has discretion, and, if we have no better I 
pledge for her silence, there is that of necessity ; J 
since there is no one here for a confidant, but her 
old Norman valet, and the Patroon of Kinderhook, 
both of whom are dreaming of other matter than 
a little gainful traffic.” 

“Fear thee not, alderman,” returned the I 
other, still maintaining his air of mockery. “ We j 
have the pledge of character, if no other ; since | 
the uncle cannot part with reputation, without ! 
the niece sharing in the loss.” 

“ What sin is there in pushing commerce a \ 
step beyond the limits of the law ? These Eng- 
lish are a nation of monopolists ; and they make 
no scruple of tying us of the colonies hand and 
foot, heart and soul, with their acts of Parliament, 
saying ‘ With us shalt thou trade, or not at all.’ 
By the character of the best burgomaster of Am- 
sterdam, and they came by the provinoe, too, in 


DEALING IN CONTRABAND. 


43 


no such honesty that we should lie down and 
obey ! ” 

“ Wherein there is much comfort to a dealer 
in the contraband. Justly reasoned, my worthy 
alderman. Thy logic will at any time make a 
smooth pillow, especially if the adventure be not 
without its profit. And now, having so commend- 
ably disposed of the moral of our bargain, let us 
approach its legitimate, if not its lawful, conclu- 
sion. There,” he added, drawing a small bag 
from an inner pocket of his frock, and tossing it 
carelessly on a table ; “ there is thy gold. Eighty 
broad Johannes is no bad return for a few pack- 
ages of furs ; and even avarice itself will own 
that six months is no long investment for the 
usury.” 

“ That boat of thine, most lively Seadrift, is a 
marine humming-bird ! ” returned Myndert, with 
a joyful tremor of the voice, that betrayed his 
deep and entire satisfaction. “Didst say just 
eighty ? But spare thyself the trouble of looking 
for the memorandum ; I will tell the gold myself, 
to save thee the trouble. Truly the adventure 
hath not been bad ! a few kegs of Jamaica, with 
a little powder and lead, and a blanket or two, 
with now and then a penny bawble for a chief, 
are knowingly, ay ! and speedily transmuted into 
the yellow metal, by thy good aid. — This affair 
was managed on the French coast ? ” 

“ More northward, where the frost helped the 
bargain. Thy beavers and martens, honest burgh- 
er, will be flaunting in the presence of the emper- 
or at the next holidays. What is there in the 
face of the Braganza that thou studiest it so 
hard ? ” 

“ The piece seems none of the heaviest — but, 
luckily, I have scales at hand — ” 

“ Hold ! ” said the stranger, laying his hand, 
which, according to a fashion of that day, was 
clad in a delicate and scented glove, lightly on the 
arm of the other; “no scales between us, sir! 
That was taken in return for thy adventure ; heavy 
or light, it must go down. We deal in confi- 
dence, and this hesitation offends me. Another 
such doubt of my integrity, and our connection 
is at an end.” 

“ A calamity I should deplore, quite or nearly 
as much as thyself,” returned Myndert, affecting 
to laugh ; though he slipped the suspected doub- 
loon into the bag again, in a manner that at once 
removed the object of contention from view. “ A 
little particularity in the balance part of com- 
merce serves us to maintain friendships. But a 
trifle shall not cause us to waste the precious 
time. — Hast brought goods suited to the colo- 
nies ? ” 


“ In plenty.” 

“And ingeniously assorted? Colonists and 
monopoly ! — But there is twofold satisfaction in 
this clandestine traffic ; I never get the notice of 
thy arrival, Master Seadrift, but the heart within 
me leapeth of gladness. There is a double pleas- 
ure in circumventing the legislation of your Lon- 
don wiseacres.” 

“ The chiefest of which is — ? ” 

“A goodly return for the investment, truly — 
I desire not to deny the agency of natural causes ; 
but, trust me, there is a sort of professional glorv 
in thus defeating the selfishness of our rulers. 
What ! are we born of woman, to be used as the 
instruments of their prosperity ? Give us equal 
legislation, a right to decide on the policy of en- 
actments, and then, like a loyal and obedient sub- 
ject — ” 

“Thou would st still deal in the contra- 
band ! ” 

“Well, well, multiplying idle words is not 
multiplying gold. The list of the articles intro- 
duced can be forthcoming ? ” 

“ It is here, and ready to be examined. But 
there is a fancy come over me, Alderman Van 
Beverout, which, like others of my caprices, thou 
knowest must have its way. There should be a 
witness to our bargain.” 

“ Judges and juries ! Thou forgettest, man, 
that a clumsy galliot could sail through the tight- 
est clause of these extra-legal compacts. The 
courts receive the evidence of this sort of traffic, 
as the grave receives the dead — to swallow all and 
be forgotten.” 

“ I care not for the courts, and little desire do 
I feel to enter them. But the presence of la belle 
Barberie may serve to prevent any misconcep- 
tions that might bring our connection to a pre- 
mature close. Let her be summoned.” 

“ The girl is altogether ignorant of traffic, and 
it might unsettle her opinions of her uncle’s sta- 
bility. If a man does not maintain credit within 
his own doors, how can he expect it in the 
streets ? ” 

“ Many have credit on the highway, who re- 
ceive none at home. But thou knowest my hu- 
mor; no niece — no traffic.” 

“ Alida is a dutiful and affectionate child, and 
I would not willingly disturb her slumbers. Here 
is the Patroon of Kinderhook, a man who loves 
English legislation as little as myself — he will 
be less reluctant to see an honest shi llin g turned 
into gold. I will awake him : no man was ever 
yet offended at an offer to share in a profitable 
adventure.” 

“ Let him sleep on. I deal not with your lords 


44 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


of manors and mortgages. Bring forth the lady, 
for there will be matter fit for her delicacy.” 

“ Duty and the ten commandments ! You 
never had the charge of a child, Master Sea- 
drift, and cannot know the weight of responsibil- 
ity — ” 

“No niece — no traffic! ” interrupted the wil- 
ful dealer in contraband, returning his invoice to 
his pocket, and preparing to rise from the table, 
where he had already seated himself. “ The lady 
knows of my presence ; and it were safer for us 
both that she entered more deeply into our confi- 
dence.” 

“ Thou art as despotic as the English Naviga- 
tion-law ! I hear the foot of the child still pacing 
her chamber, and she shall come. But there 
need be no explanations, to recall old intercourse. 
The affair can pass as a bit of accidental specula- 
tion — a by-play, in the traffic of life.” 

“ As thou pleasest. I shall deal less in words 
than in business. Keep thine own secrets, burgh- 
er, and they are safe. Still, I would have the 
lady, for there is a presentiment that our connec- 
tion is in danger.” 

“ I like not that word presentiment,” grum- 
bled the alderman, taking a light, and snuffing it 
with deliberate care ; “ drop but a single letter, 
and one dreams of the pains and penalties of the 
Exchequer. — Remember thou art a trafficker, who 
conceals his appearance on account of the clever- 
ness of his speculations.” 

“ That is my calling to the letter. Were all 
others as clever, the trade would certainly cease. 
— Go, bring the lady.” 

The alderman, who probably saw the necessity 
of making some explanation to his niece, and 
who, it would seem, fully understood the positive 
character of his companion, no longer hesitated ; 
but, first casting a suspicious glance out of the 
still open window, he left the room. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Alack, what heinous sin is it in me, 

To be ashamed to be my father’s child ! 

But though I am a daughter to his blood, 

I am not to his manners.” 

Merchant or Venice, 

The moment the stranger was again alone, 
the entire expression of his countenance under- 
went a change. The reckless and bold expres- 
sion deserted his eye, which once more became 
soft, if not pensive, as it wandered over the dif- 
ferent elegant objects that served to amuse the 


leisure of la belle Barb6rie. He arose and 
touched the strings of a lute, and then, like 
Fear, started back, as if recoiling at the sound 
he had made. All recollection of the object of 
his visit was evidently forgotten in a new and 
livelier interest ; and, had there been one to 
watch his movements, the last motive imputed to 
his presence would probably have been the one 
that was true. There was so little of that vul- 
gar and common character which is usually seen 
in men of his pursuit, in the gentle aspect and 
subdued air of his fine features, that it might 
be fancied he was thus singularly endowed by 
Nature, in order that deception might triumph. 
If there were moments when a disregard of opin- 
ion was seen in his demeanor, it rather appeared 
assumed than easy; and even when most dis- 
posed to display lawless indifference to the ordi- 
nary regulations of society, in his interview with 
the alderman, it had been blended with a reserve 
of manner that was strangely in contrast with 
his humor. 

On the other hand, it were idle to say that 
Alida de Barberie had no unpleasant suspicions 
concerning the character of her uncle’s guest. 
That baneful influence which necessarily exerts 
itself near an irresponsible power, coupled with 
the natural indifference with which the principal 
regards the dependant, had caused the English 
ministry to fill too many of their posts of honor 
and profit, in their colonies, with needy and dis- 
solute men of rank, or of high political connec- 
tions at home. The province of New York had, 
in this respect, been particularly unfortunate. 
The gift of it by Charles to his brother and suc- 
cessor, had left it without the protection of those 
charters and other privileges that had been grant- 
ed to most of the governments of America. The 
connection with the crown was direct, and for a 
long period the majority of the inhabitants were 
considered as of a different race, and of course 
as of one less to be considered than that of their 
conquerors. Such was the laxity of the times 
on the subject of injustice to the people of this 
hemisphere, that the predatory expeditions of 
Drake and others against the wealthy occupants 
of the more southern countries seem to have 
left no spots on their escutcheons ; and the hon- 
ors and favors of Queen Elizabeth had been lib- 
erally extended to men who would now be deemed 
freebooters. In short, that system of violence and 
specious morality which commenced with the gifts 
of Ferdinand and Isabella, and the bulls of the 
popes, was continued with more or less of modi- 
fication, until the descendants of those single- 
minded and virtuous men who peopled the Union, 


THE ALDERMAN’S INSPECTION. 


45 


took the powers of government into their own 
hands, and proclaimed political ethics that were 
previously as little practised as understood. 

Alida knew that both the Earl of Bellamont 
and the unprincipled nobleman who has been 
introduced in the earlier pages of this tale, 
had not escaped the imputation of conniving at 
acts on the sea far more flagrant than any of an 
unlawful trade ; and it will therefore create little 
surprise that she saw reason to distrust the le- 
gality of some of her uncle’s speculations, with 
less pain than might be felt by one of her sex 
and opinions at the present hour. Her sus- 
picions, however, fell far short of the truth ; for 
it were scarce possible to have presented a mari- 
ner who bore about him fewer of those signs of 
his rude calling than he whom she had so unex- 
pectedly met. 

Perhaps, too, the powerful charm that existed 
in the voice and countenance of one so singularly 
gifted by Nature, had its influence in persuading 
Alida to reappear. At all events, she was soon 
seen to enter the room with an air that manifest- 
ed more of curiosity and wonder than of dis- 
pleasure. 

“ My niece has heard that thou comest from 
the old countries, Master Seadrift,” said the wary 
alderman, who preceded Alida, “ and the woman 
is uppermost in her heart. Thou wilt never be 
forgiven should the eye of any maiden in Man- 
hattan get sight of thy finery before she has 
passed judgment on its merit.” 

“ I cannot wish a more impartial or a fairer 
judge,” returned the other, doffing his cap in the 
gallant and careless manner of his trade. “ Here 
are silks from the looms of Tuscany, and Lyon- 
nois brocades, that any Lombard or dame of 
France might envy. Ribbons of every hue and 
dye, and laces that seem to copy the fretwork of 
the richest cathedral of your Fleming ! ” 

“ Thou hast journeyed much in thy time, 
Master Seadrift, and speakest of countries and 
usages with understanding,” said the alderman. 

“ But how stand the prices of these precious 
goods ? Thou knowest the long war, and moral 
certainty of its continuance; this German suc- 
cession to the throne, and the late earthquakes 
in the country, too, have much unsettled prices, 
and cause us thoughtful burghers to be wary in 
our traffic. Didst inquire the cost of geldings 
when last in Holland ? ” 

“ The animals go a-begging ! As to the value 
of my goods, that, you know, is fixed ; for I ad- 
mit of no parley between friends.” 

“ Thy obstinacy is unreasonable, Master Sea- 
drift. A wise merchant will always look to the 


state of the market, and one so practised should 
know that a nimble sixpence multiplies faster 
than a slow-moving shilling. ’Tis the constant 
rolling of the ball that causes the snow to cleave ! 
Goods that come light should not go heavy, and 
quick settlements follow sudden bargains. Thou 
knowest our York saying, that ‘ first offers are 
the best.’ ” 

“ that likes may purchase, and he that 
prefers his gold to fine laces, rich silks, and stiff 
brocades, has only to sleep with his money-bags 
under his pillow. There are others who wait with 
impatience to see the articles; and I have not 
crossed the Atlantic with a freight that scarcely 
ballasts the brigantine, to throw away the valu- 
ables on the lowest bidder.” 

“ Nay, uncle,” said Alida, in a little trepida- 
tion, “ we cannot judge of the quality of Master 
Seadrift’s articles by report. I dare to say he has 
not landed without a sample of his wares ? ” 

“ Custom and friendships ! ” muttered Myn- 
dert ; “ of what use is an established correspond- 
ence if it is to be broken on account of a little 
cheapening ? But produce thy stores, Mr. Dog- 
matism ; I warrant me the fashions are of some 
rejected use, or that the color of the goods be 
impaired by the usual negligence of thy careless 
mariners. We will at least pay thee the compli- 
ment to look at the effects.” 

“’Tis as you please,” returned the other. 
“ The bales are in the usual place at the wharf, 
under the inspection of honest Master Tiller — but 
if so inferior in quality they will scarce repay the 
trouble of the walk.” 

“ I’ll go, I’ll go,” said the alderman, adjusting 
his wig and removing his spectacles ; “ ’twould 
not be treating an old correspondent well, to re- 
fuse to look at his samples — thou wilt follow, 
Master Seadrift, and so I will pay thee the compli- 
ment to examine the effects — though the long war, 
the glut of furs, the over-abundance of the last 
year’s harvests, and the perfect quiet in the min- 
ing districts, have thrown all commerce flat on its 
back. I’ll go, however, lest thou shouldst say 
thy interests were neglected. Thy Master Tiller 
is an indiscreet agent ; he gave me a fright to-day 
that exceeds any alarm I have felt since the fail- 
ure of Yan Halt, Balance, and Diddle.” 

The voice of Myndert became inaudible, for, 
in his haste not to neglect the interests of his 
guest, the tenacious trader had already quitted 
the room, and half of his parting speech was ut- 
tered in the antechamber of the pavilion. 

“ ’Twould scarce comport with the propriety 
of my sex, to mingle with the seamen, and the 
others who doubtless surround the bales,” said 


46 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


Alida, in whose face there was a marked expres- 
sion of hesitation and curiosity. 

“ It will not be necessary,” returned her com- 
panion. “ I have, at hand, specimens of all that 
you would see. But why this haste? We are 
yet in the early hours of the night, and the alder- 
man will be occupied long, ere he comes to the 
determination to pay the prices my people are 
sure to ask. . I am lately from off the sea, beauti- 
ful Alida, and thou canst not know the pleasure 
I find in breathihg even the atmosphere of a wom- 
an’s presence.” 

La belle Barberie retired a step or two, she 
knew not why ; and her hand was placed upon 
the cord of the bell, before she was aware of the 
manner in which she betrayed her alarm. 

“ To me it does not seem that I am a creature 
so terrific that thou need’st dread my presence,” 
continued the gay mariner, with a smile that ex- 
pressed as much of secret irony, as of that pen- 
sive character which had again taken possession 
of his countenance ; “ but ring, and bring your 
attendants to relieve fears that are natural to thy 
sex, and therefore seducing to mine. Shall I pull 
the cord ? — for this pretty hand trembles too much 
to do its office.” 

“ I know not that any would answer, for it is 
past the hour of attendance ; it is better that I go 
to the examination of the bales.” 

The strange and singularly - attired being, 
who occasioned so much uneasiness to Alida, re- 
garded her a moment with a kind and melancholy 
solicitude. 

“ Thus they are all, till altered by too much 
intercourse with a cold and corrupt world ! ” he 
rather whispered, than uttered aloud. “Would 
that thus they might all continue ! Thou art a 
singular compound of thy sex’s weakness and of 
manly resolution, belle Barberie; but trust me,” 
and he laid his hand on his heart with an ear- 
nestness that spoke well for his sincerity, “ ere 
word, or act, to harm or to offend thee, should 
proceed from any who obey will of mine, Nature 
itself must undergo a change. Start not, for I 
call one to show the specimen you would see.” 

He then applied a little silver whistle to his 
lips, and drew a low signal from the instrument, 
motioning to Alida to await the result without 
alarm. In half a minute, there was a rustling 
among the leaves of the shrubbery, a moment 
of attentive pause, and then a dark object en- 
tered the window, and rolled heavily to the cen- 
tre of the floor. 

“ Here are our commodities, and trust me the 
price shall not be dwelt on between us,” re- 
sumed Master Seadrift, undoing the fastenings 


of the little bale, that had entered the .saloon 
seemingly without the aid of hands. “ These 
goods are so many gages of neutrality between 
us ; so approach and examine without fear. 
You will find some among them to reward the 
hazard.” 

The bale was now open, and, as its master ap- 
peared to be singularly expert in suiting a female 
fancy, it became impossible for Al;da to resist 
any longer. She gradually lost her reserve, as 
the examination proceeded ; and before the own- 
er of the treasures had got into the third of his 
packages, the hands of the heiress were as ac- 
tively employed as his own, in gaining access to 
their view. 

“ This is a stuff of the Lombard territories,” 
said the vender of the goods, pleased with the 
confidence he had succeeded in establishing be- 
tween his beautiful customer and himself. “ Thou 
seest, it is rich, flowery, and variegated as the 
land it came from. One might fancy the vines 
and vegetation of that deep soil were shooting 
from this labor of the loom — nay, the piece is 
sufficient for any toilet, however ample ; see, it 
is endless as the plains that reared the little ani- 
mal who supplies the texture. I have parted of 
that fabric to many dames of England, who have 
not disdained to traffic with one that risks much 
in their behalf.” 

“ I fear there are many who find a pleasure 
in these stuffs, chiefly because their use is for- 
bidden.” 

“ ’Twould not be out of nature ! Look ; this 
box contains ornaments of the elephant’s tooth, 
cut by a cunning artificer in the far Eastern 
lands ; they do not disfigure a lady’s dressing- 
table, and have a moral, for they remind her of 
countries where the sex is less happy than at 
home. Ah ! here is a treasure of Mechlin, 
wrought in a fashion of my own design.” 

“ ’Tis beautifully fancied, and might do credit 
to one who professed the painter’s art.” 

“ My youth was much employed in these con- 
ceits,” returned the trader, unfolding the rich 
and delicate lace, in a manner to show that he 
had still pleasure in contemplating its texture 
and quality. “ There was a compact between 
me and the maker, that enough should be fur- 
nished to reach from the high church-tower of 
his town to the pavement beneath ; and yet, you 
see how little remains ! The London dames 
found it to their taste, and it was not easy to 
bring even this trifle into the colonies.” 

“ You chose a remarkable measure for an 
article that was to visit so many different coun- 
tries, without the formalities of law.” 


ALIDA AND THE SMUGGLER. 


47 


“We thought to start in favor of the Church, 
which rarely frowns on those who respect its 
privileges. Under the sanction of such authority, 
I will lay aside all that remains, certain it will 
be needed for thy use.” 

“ So rare a manufacture should be costly ? ” 

La belle Barberie spoke hesitatingly, and, as 
she raised her eyes, they met the dark organs of 
her companion, fixed on her face, in a manner 
that seemed to express a consciousness of the 
ascendency he was gaining. Startled, at she 
knew not what, the maiden again added, hastily : 

“ This may be fitter for a court lady than a 
girl of the colonies.” 

“None who have yet worn of it so well be- 
come it ; I lay it here, as a make-weight in my 
bargain with the alderman. — This is satin of Tus- 
cany ; a country where Nature exhibits its ex- 
tremes, and one whose merchants were princes. 
Your Florentine was subtle in his fabrics, and 
happy in his conceits of forms and colors, for 
which *he stood indebted to the riches of his 
own climate. Observe — the hue of this glossy 
surface is scarcely so delicate as I have seen the 
rosy light, at even, playing on the sides of his 
Apennines ! ” 

“You have then visited the regions in whose 
fabrics you deal ? ” said Alida,. suffering the arti- 
cles to fall from her hand, in the stronger inter- 
est she began to feel in their owner. 

“ ’Tis my habit. Here have we a chain from 
the city of the isles. The hand of a Venetian 
could alone form these delicate and nearly insen- 
sible links. I refused a string of spotless pearls 
for that same golden web.” 

“ It was indiscreet, in one who trades at so 
much hazard.” 

“ I kept the bawble for my pleasure ! — Whim 
is sometimes stronger than the thirst of gain ; and 
this chain does not quit me till I bestow it on the 
lady of my love.” 

“ One so actively employed can scarcely spare 
time to seek a fitting object for the gift.” 

“ Is merit and loveliness in the sex so rare ? 
La belle Barberie speaks in the security of many 
conquests, or she would not deal thus lightly in a 
matter that is so serious with most females.” 

“ Among other countries your vessel hath vis- 
ited a land of witchcraft, or you would not pretend 
to a knowledge of things, that, in their very na- 
ture, must be hidden from a stranger. — Of what 
value may be those beautiful feathers of the os- 
trich ? ” 

“ They came of swarthy Africa, though so 
gpotless themselves. The bunch was had, by 
secret traffic, from a Moorish man, in exchange 


for a few skins of Lachryma Christi, that he 
swallowed with his eyes shut. I dealt with the 
fellow only in pity for his thirst, and do not pride 
myself on the value of the commodity. It shall 
go, too, to quicken love between me and thy 
uncle.” 

Alida could not object to this liberality, though 
she was not without a secret opinion that the 
gifts were no more than delicate and well-con- 
cealed offerings to herself. The effect of this 
suspicion was twofold : it caused the maiden to 
become more reserved in the expression of her 
tastes, though it in no degree lessened her confi- 
dence in, and admiration of, the wayward and re- 
markable trader. 

“ My uncle will have cause to commend thy 
generous spirit,” said the heiress, bending her 
head a little coldly, at this repeated declaration 
of her companion’s intentions, “ though it would 
seem that, in trade, justice is as much to be de- 
sired as generosity — this seemeth a curious design, 
wrought with the needle ! ” 

“ It is the labor of many a day, fashioned by 
the hand of a recluse. I bought it of a nun, in 
France, who passed years in toil upon the con- 
ceit, which is of more value than the material. 
The meek daughter of solitude wept when she 
parted with the fabric, for, in her eyes, it had the 
tie of association and habit. A companion might 
be lost to one who lives in the confusion of the 
world, and it should not cause more real sorrow 
than parting from the product of her needle gave 
that mild resident of the cloisters ! ” 

“And is it permitted for your sex to visit 
those places of religigus retirement ? ” asked 
Alida. “ I come of a race that pays little defer- 
ence to monastic life, for we are refugees from the 
severity of Louis ; but yet I never heard my father 
charge these females with being so regardless of 
their vows.” 

“ The fact was so repeated to me; for, surely, 
my sex are not admitted to traffic, directly, with 
the modest sisters ” (a smile, that Alida was half 
disposed to think bold, played about the hand- 
some mouth of the speaker); “ but it was so re- 
ported. What is your opinion of the merit of 
woman, in thus seeking refuge from the cares, 
and haply from the sins, of the world, in institu- 
tions of this order ? ” 

“ Truly the question exceedethmy knowledge. 
This is not a country to immure females, and the 
custom causes us of America little thought.” 

“ The usage hath its abuses,” continued the 
dealer in contraband, speaking thoughtfully ; 

“ but it is not without its good. There are many 
of the weak and vain, that would be happier in 


48 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


the cloisters, than if left to the seductions and 
follies of life. Ah ! here is work of English hands. 

I scarcely know how the articles found their way 
into the company of the products of the foreign 
looms. My bales contain, in general, little that is 
vulgarly sanctioned by the law. Speak me frank- 
ly, belle Alida, and say if you share in the preju- 
dices against the character of us free-traders ? ” 

“ I pretend not to judge of regulations that 
exceed the knowledge and practices of my sex,” 
returned the maiden, with commendable reserve. 
“ There are some who think the abuse of power 
a justification of its resistance, while others deem 
a breach of law to be a breach of morals.” 

“ The latter is the doctrine of your man of in- 
vested moneys and established fortune ! He has 
intrenched his gains behind acknowledged bar- 
riers, and he preaches their sanctity, because 
thev favor his selfishness. We skimmers of the 
sea-” 

Alida started so suddenly as to cause her 
companion to cease speaking. 

“ Are my words frightful, that you pale at 
their sound ? ” 

“ I hope they are used rather in accident than 
with their dreaded meaning. I would not have it 
said — no ! ’tis but a chance that springs from 
some resemblance in your callings. One like you 
can never be the man whose name has grown in- 
to a proverb ! ” 

“One like me, beautiful Alida, is much as 
Fortune wills. Of what man, or of what name 
wouldst speak ? ” 

“ ’Tis nothing,” returned la belle Barberie, 
gazing unconsciously at the polished and graceful 
features of the stranger, longer than was wont in 
maiden. “ Proceed with your explanation — 
these are rich velvets ! ” 

“ They come of Venice, too ; but commerce is 
like the favor which attends the rich, and the 
queen of the Adriatic is already far on the 
decline. That which causes the increase of the 
husbandman occasions the downfall of a city. 
The lagunes are filling with fat soil, and the keel 
of the trader is less frequent there than of old. 
Ages hence, the plough may trace furrows where 
the Bucentaur has floated! The outer India 
passage has changed the current of prosperity, 
which ever rushes in the widest and newest 
track. Nations might learn a moral, by studying 
the sleepy canals and instructive magnificence of 
that fallen town ; but pride fattens on its own 
lazy recollections, to the last !— As I was saying, 
we rovers deal little in musty maxims, that are 
made by the great and prosperous at home, and 
are trumpeted abroad, in order that the weak and 


unhappy should be the more closely riveted in 
their fetters.” 

“ Methinks you push the principle further 
than is necessary, for one whose greatest offence 
against established usage is a little hazardous 
commerce. These are opinions that might unset- 
tle the world.” 

“ Rather settle it, by referring all to the rule 
of right. When governments shall lay their 
foundations in natural justice, when their object 
shall be to remove the temptations to err, instead 
of creating them, and when bodies of men shall 
feel and acknowledge the responsibilities of indi- 
viduals — why, then the Water-Witch herself 
might become a revenue-cutter, and her owner an 
officer of the customs.” 

The velvet fell from the hands of la belle Bar- 
berie, and she arose from her seat with precipita- 
tion. 

“ Speak plainly,” said Alida, with all her 
natural firmness. “ With whom am I about to 
traffic ? ” 

“An outcast of society — a man condemned 
in the opinions of the world — the outlaw — the 
flagrant wanderer of the ocean — the lawless Skim- 
mer of the Seas ! ” cried a voice at the open win- 
dow. 

In another minute Ludlow was in the room. 
Alida uttered a shriek, veiled her face in her 
robe, and rushed from the apartment. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ Truth will come to light ; 

Murder cannot he hid long, a man’s son may ; 

But in the end, truth will out” 

Lattncelot. 

The officer of the queen had leaped into the 
pavilion with the flushed features and all the hur- 
ry of an excited man. The exclamations and re- 
treat of la belle Barberie, for a single moment, 
diverted his attention ; then he turned, suddenly, 
not to say fiercely, toward her companion. It is 
not necessary to repeat the description of the 
stranger’s person, in order to render the change 
which instantly occurred in the countenance of 
Ludlow intelligible to the reader. His eye, at 
first, refused to believe there was no other pres- ' 
ent ; and when it had, again and again, searched 
the whole apartment, it returned to the face and 
form of the dealer in contraband, with an expres- 
sion of incredulity and wonder. 

“ Here is some mistake ! ” exclaimed the com- 
mander of the Coquette, after time had been giv- 
en for a thorough examination of the room. 



In another minute Ludlow was in the room. 


























_ 
































, - ' " _ ^ - ■ \ 

**- - <: 






* 

% 

. | 









'■ • • : •• ■ ■' ••. • ' - - •••• ■ ; j v-, ••fh v'" 




; V,« ■■■ •••>-,.- 

% 





49 


THE SMUGGLER AN 

“ Your g^tle manner of entrance,” returned 
the stranger, across whose face there had passed 
a glow that might have come equally of anger or 
surprise, “has driven the lady from the room. 
But, as you wear the livery of the queen, I pre- 
sume you have authority for invading the dwell- 
ing of the subject ? ” 

“ I had believed — nay, there was reason to 
be certain, that one whom all of proper loyalty exe- 
crate, was to be found here,” stammered the still 
confused Ludlow. “ There can scarce be a de- 
ception, for I plainly heard the discourse of my 
captors, and yet here is none ! ” 

“ I thank you for the high consideration you 
bestow on my presence.” 

The manner, rather than the words, of the 
speaker, induced Ludlow to rivet another look on 
his countenance. There was a mixed expression 
of doubt, admiration, and possibly of uneasiness, 
if not of actual jealousy, in the eye, which slowly 
read all his lineaments, though the former seemed 
: the stronger sensation of the three. 

“We have never met before ! ” cried Ludlow, 
when the organ began to grow dim with the 
length and steadiness of its gaze. 

“ The ocean has many paths, and men may 
journey on them long without crossing each 
other.” 

“ Thou hast served the queen, though I see 
thee in this doubtful situation ? ” 

“ Never. I am not one to bind myself to the 
servitude of any woman that lives,” returned the 
free-trader, while a mild smile played about -his 
lip, “ though she wore a thousand diadems ; Anne 
never hadl an hour of my time nor a single wish 
of my heart.” 

“ This is bold language, sir, for the ear of her 
officer. The arrival of an unknown brigantine, 
certain incidents which have occurred to myself 
this night, your presence here, that bale of articles 
forbidden by the law, create suspicions that must 
be satisfied. Who are you ? ” 

“ The flagrant wanderer of the ocean — the 
outcast of society — the condemned in the opin- 
ions of the world — the lawless Skimmer of the 
Seas ! ” 

“ This cannot be ! The tongues of men speak 
of the personal deformity of that wanderer, no 
less than of his bold disregard of the law. You 
would deceive me.” 

“ If, then, men err so much in that which is 
visible and unimportant,” returned the other, 
proudly, “ is there not reason to doubt their 
accuracy in matters of more weight ? I am 
surely what I seem, if I am not what I say.” 

“I will not credit so improbable a tale. 

4 


CAPTAIN LUDLOW. 

Give me some proof that what I hear is 
true.” 

“ Look at that brigantine, whose delicate spars 
are almost confounded with the background of 
trees,” said the other, approaching the window, 
and directing the attention of his companion to 
the cove. “ ’Tis the bark that has so often foiled 
the efforts of all thy cruisers, and which trans- 
ports me and my wealth whither I will, without 
the fetters of arbitrary laws, and the meddling in- 
quiries of venal hirelings. The scud, which floats 
above the sea, is not freer than that vessel, and 
scarcely more swift. Well is she named the 
Water-Witch ! for her performances on the wide 
ocean have been such as seem to exceed ail nat- 
ural means. The froth of the sea does not dance 
more lightly above the waves than yonder grace- 
ful fabric, when driven by the breeze. She is a 
thing to be loved, Ludlow ; trust me, I never yet 
set affections on woman with the warmth I feel 
for the faithful and beautiful machine ! ” 

“ This is little more than any mariner could 
say, in praise of a vessel that he admired.” 

“ Will you say it, sir, in favor of yon lumber- 
ing sloop of Queen Anne ? Your Coquette is none 
of the fairest, and there was more of pretension 
than of truth at her christening.” 

“By the title of my royal mistress, young 
beardless, but there is an insolence in this lan- 
guage that might become him you wish to repre- 
sent ! My ship, heavy or light of foot as she may 
be, is fated to bring yonder false trader to the 
judgment.” 

“By the craft and qualities of the Water- 
Witch ! but this is language that might become 
one who was at liberty to act his pleasure,” re- 
turned the stranger, tauntingly imitating the tone 
in which his. angry companion had spoken. “ You 
would have proof of my identity : listen. There 
is one who vaunts his power, that forgets he is a 
dupe of my agent ; and that even while his words 
are so full of boldness, he is a captive ! ” 

The brown cheek of Ludlow reddened, and he 
turned toward the lighter and far less vigorous 
frame of his companion as if about to strike him 
to the earth, when a door opened, and Alida ap- 
peared in the saloon. 

The meeting between the commander of the 
Coquette and his mistress was not without em- 
barrassment. The anger of the former and the 
confusion of the latter for a moment kept both 
silent ; but, as la belle Barberie had not returned 
without an object, she was quick to speak. 

“ I know not whether to approve or to condemn 
the boldness that has prompted Captain Ludlow 
to enter my pavilion, at this unseasonable hour, 


50 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


and in so unceremonious a manner,” she said, 
“ for I am still ignorant of his motive. When he 
shall please to let me hear it, I may judge better 
of the merit of the excuse.” 

“ True, we will hear his explanation, before 
condemnation,” added the stranger, offering a 
seat to Alida, which she coldly declined. “ Be- 
yond a doubt the gentleman has a motive.” 

If looks could have destroyed, the speaker 
would have been annihilated. But, as the lady 
seemed indifferent to the last remark, Ludlow 
prepared to enter on his vindication. 

“ I shall not attempt to conceal that an arti- 
fice has been practised,” he said, “ which is ac- 
companied by consequences that I find awkward. 
The air and manner of the seaman whose bold 
conduct you witnessed in the boat, induced me 
to confide in him more than was prudent, and I 
have been rewarded by deception.” 

“ In other words, Captain Ludlow is not as 
sagacious as he had reason to believe,” said an 
ironical voice at his elbow. 

“ In what manner am I to blame, or why is 
my privacy to be interrupted, because a wander- 
ing seaman has deceived the commander of the 
Coquette ? ” rejoined Alida. “ Not only that au- 
dacious mariner, but this — this person,” she 
added, adopting a word that use has appropriated 
to the multitude, “ is a stranger to me. There 
is no other connection between us than that you 
see.” 

“ It is not necessary to say why I landed,” 
continued Ludlow ; “ but I was weak enough to 
allow that unknown mariner to quit my ship in 
my company ; and, when I would return, he found 
means to disarm my men, and make me a pris- 
oner.” 

“ And yet art thou, for a captive, tolerably 
free ! ” added the ironical voice. 

“ Of what service is this freedom, without the 
means of using it ? The sea separates me from 
my ship, and my faithful boat’s crew are in fetters. 
I have been little watched myself ; but though 
forbidden to approach certain points, enough has 
been seen to leave no doubts of the character 
of those whom Alderman Yan Beverout enter- 
tains.” 

“ Thou wouldst also say, and his niece, Lud- 
low.” 

“ I would say nothing harsh to, or disrespect- 
ful of, Alida de Barberie. I will not deny that a 
harrowing idea possessed me ; but I see my error, 
and repent having been so hasty.” 

“We may then resume our commerce,” said 
the trader, coolly seating himself before the open 
bale, while Ludlow and the maiden stood regard- 


ing each other in mute surprise. “ It is pleasant 
to exhibit these forbidden treasures to an officer 
of the queen. It may prove the means of gain- 
ing the -royal patronage. We were last among 
the velvets, and on the lagunes, of Venice. Here 
is one of a color and quality to form a bridal dress 
for the doge himself, in his nuptials with the sea. 
We men of the ocean look upon that ceremony as 
a pledge Hymen will not forget us, though we 
may wander from his altars. Do I justice to the 
faith of the craft, Captain Ludlow ? — or are you 
a sworn devotee of Neptune, and content to 
breathe your sighs to Yenus, when afloat ? Well, 
if the damps and salt air of the ocean rust the 
golden chain, it is the fault of cruel Nature ! — Ah ! 
here is — ” # 

A shrill whistle sounded among the shrubbery, 
and the speaker became mute. Throwing his 
cloths carelessly on the bale, he arose again, and 
seemed to hesitate. Throughout the interview < 
with Ludlow, the air of the free-trader had been ■ 
mild, though at times it was playful ; and not for 
an instant had he seemed to return the resent- 
ment which the other had so plainly manifested. 
It now became perplexed, and, by the workings 
of his features, it would seem that he vacillated in 
his opinions. The sounds of the whistle were 
heard again. 

“ Ay, ay, Master Tom ! ” muttered the dealer 
in contraband. “ Thy note is audible, but why 
this haste ? — Beautiful Alida, this shrill summons 
is to say, that the moment of parting is ar- 
rived ! ” 

“We met with less of preparation,” returned 
la belle Barberie, who preserved all the distant! 
reserve of her sex, under the jealods eyes of her 
admirer. 

“We met without a warning, but shall our 
separation be without a memorial ? Am I to re- 
turn with all these valuables to the brigantine, or 
in their place must I take the customary golden 
tribute ? ” 

“ I know not that I dare make a traffic which 
is not sanctioned by the law in presence of a ser- 
vant of the queen,” returned Alida, smiling. “ I 
will not deny that you have much to excite a 
woman’s envy ; but our royal mistress might for-! 
get her sex, and show little pity, were she to hear 
of my weakness.” 

“ No fear of that, lady. ’Tis they who are 
most stern in creating these harsh regulations 
that show most frailty in their breach. By 
the virtues of honest Leadenhall itself, but I 
should like to tempt the royal Anne in her closet 
with such a display of goodly laces and heavy bro- 
cades.” 


CAPTAIN LUDLOW A PRISONER. 


51 


That might be more hazardous than wise ! ” 
u I know not. Though seated on a throne, 
she is but woman. Disguise Nature as thou wilt, 
she is a universal tyrant, and governs all alike. 
The head that wears a crown dreams of the con- 
quests of the sex, rather than of the conquests of 
states ; the hand that wields the sceptre is fitted 
to display its prettiness with the pencil or the nee- 
dle ; and, though words and ideas may be taught 
and sounded forth with the pomp of royalty, the 
tone is still that of woman.” 

“ Without bringing into question the merits 
of our present royal mistress,” said Alida, who 
was a little apt to assert her sex’s rights, “ there 
is the example of the glorious Elizabeth, to refute 
his charge.” 

“ Ay, we have had our Cleopatras in the sea- 
fight, and fear was found stronger than love! 
The sea has monsters, and so may have the land. 
He that made the earth gave it laws that ’tis not 
good to break. We men are jealous of our quali- 
ties, and little like to see them usurped; and 
trust me, lady, she that forgets the means that 
Nature bestows, may mourn in sorrow over the 
fatal error. «But shall we deal in velvet, or is your 
taste more leaning to brocade ? ” 

Alida and Ludlow listened in admiration to 
i the capricious and fanciful language of the unac- 
j countable trader, and both were equally at a loss 
to estimate hi3 character. The equivocal air was 
in general well maintained, though the command- 
I er of the Coquette had detected an earnestness 
and feeling in his manner, when he more particu- 
larly addressed la belle Barberie, that excited an 
uneasiness he was ashamed to admit, even to him- 
self. That the maiden herself observed this 
change, might also be inferred from a richer glow 
which diffused itself over her features, though it is 
scarce probable that she was conscious of its ef- 
fects. When questioned as to her determination 
concerning his goods, she again regarded Ludlow 
doubtingly, ere she answered. 

“ That you have not studied woman in vain,” 
she laughingly replied, “ I must fain acknowledge. 
And yet ere I make decision, suffer me to con- 
sult those who, being more accustomed to deal 
with the laws, are better judges of the propriety 
of the purchases.” 

“ If this request were not reasonable in itself, 
it were due to your beauty and station, lady, to 
grant it. I leave the bale in your care ; and, before 
to-morrow’s sun has set, one will await the an- 
swer. — Captain Ludlow, are we to part in friend- 
ship, or does your duty to the queen proscribe 
the word ? ” 

“ If what you seem,” said Ludlow, “ you are a 


being inexplicable ! If this be some masquerade, 
as I half suspect, ’tis well maintained at least, 
though not worthily assumed.” 

“ You are not the first who has refused credit 
to his senses in a manner wherein the Water- 
Witch and her commander have been concerned. 
— Peace, honest Tom ; thy whistle will not hasten 
Father Time ! — Friend or not, Captain Ludlow 
need not be told he is my prisoner.” 

“ That I have fallen into the power of a mis- 
creant — ” 

“ Hist ! — if thou hast love for bodily ease and 
whole bones. Master Thomas Tiller is a man of 
rude humor, and he as little likes contumely as 
another. Besides, the honest mariner did but 
obey my orders, and his character is protected by a 
superior responsibility.” 

“ Thy orders ! ” repeated Ludlow, with an ex- 
pression of eye and lip that might have offended 
one more disposed to take offence than him he 
addressed. “ The fellow who so well succeeded 
in his artifice is one much more likely to com- 
mand than to obey. If any here be the Skimmer 
of the Seas, it is he.” 

“We are no more than the driving spray 
which goes whither the winds list. But in what 
hath the man offended that he finds so little favor 
with the queen’s captain ? He has not had the 
boldness to propose a secret traffic with so loyal 
a gentleman.” 

“ ’Tis well, sir ; you choose a happy occasion 
for this pleasantry. I landed to manifest the re- 
spect that I feel for this lady, and I care not if 
the world knows the object of the visit. ’Twas 
no silly artifice that led me hither.” 

“ Spoken with the frankness of a seaman ! ” 
said the inexplicable dealer in contraband, though 
his color lessened and his voice appeared to hesi- 
tate. “ I admire this loyalty in man to woman ; 
for, as custom has so strongly fettered them in 
the expression of their inclinations, it is due from 
us to leave as little doubt as possible of our 
intentions. It is difficult to think that la belle Bar- 
berie can do wiser than to reward so much manly 
admiration.” 

The stranger cast a glance, which Alida fan- 
cied betrayed solicitude, as he spoke, at the maid- 
en, and he appeared to expect she would reply. 

“ When the time shall come for a decision,” 
returned the half-pleased and yet half-offended 
subject of his allusion, “it maybe necessary to 
call upon very different counsellors for advice. I 
hear the step of my uncle. — Captain Ludlow, I 
leave it to your discretion to meet him or not.” 

The heavy footstep was approaching through 
the outer rooms of the pavilion. Ludlow hesi- 


52 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


tated ; cast a reproachful look at his mistress ; 
then he instantly quitted the apartment by the 
place through which he had entered. A noise in 
the shrubbery sufficiently proved that his return 
was expected, and that he was closely watched. 

“ Noah’s Ark, and our grandmothers ! ” ex- 
claimed Myndert, appearing at the door with a 
face red with his exertions. “ You have brought 
us the cast-off finery of our ancestors, Master Sea- 
drift. Here are stuffs of an age that is past, and 
they should be bartered for gold that hath been 
spent.” 

“What now! what now!” responded the 
free-trader, whose tone and manner seemed to 
change at will, in order to suit the humor of whom- 
soever he was brought to speak with. “ What 
now, pertinacious burgher, that thou shouldst 
cry down wares that are but too good for these 
distant regions! Many is the English duchess 
who pines to possess but the tithe of these beau- 
tiful stuffs I offer thy niece ; and, faith, rare is the 
English duchess that would become them half so 
well ! ” 

“ The girl is seemly, and thy velvets and bro- 
cades are passable, but the heavy articles are not 
fit to offer to a Mohawk sachem. There must be 
a reduction of prices, or the invoice cannot pass.” 

“ The greater the pity. But if sail we must, 
sail we will ! The brigantine knows the channel 
over the Nantucket sands ; and, my life on it ! the 
Yankees will find others than the Mohawks for 
chapmen.” 

“Thou art as quick in thy notions, Master 
Seadrift, as the boat itself. Who said that a com- 
promise might not be made when discussion was 
prudently and fairly exhausted ? Strike off the 
odd florins, leave the balance in round thousands, 
and thy trade is done for the season ! ” 

“Not a stiver. Here, count me back the 
faces of the Braganza; throw enough of thin 
ducats into the scales to make up the sum, and 
let thy slaves push inland with the articles, be- 
fore the morning light comes to tell the story. 
Here has been one among us who may do mis- 
chief, if he will ; though I know not how far he 
is master of the main secret.” 

Alderman Yan Beverout stared a little wildly 
about him, adjusted his wig, like one fully con- 
scious of the value of appearances in this world, 
and then cautiously drew the curtains before the 
windows. 

“ I know of none more than common, my niece 
excepted,” he said, when all these precautions 
had been observed. “ >Tis true, the Patroon of 
Kinderhook is in the house; but, as the man 
sleeps, he is a witness in our favor. We have 


the testimony of his presence, while his tongue is 
silent.” 

“ Well, be it so,” rejoined the free-trader, read- 
ing, in the imploring eyes of Alida, a petition that 
he would say no more. “ I knew by instinct there 
was one unusual, and it was not for me to dis- 
cover that he sleeps. There are dealers on the 
coast, who, for the sake of insurance, would 
charge his presence in their bills.” 

“ Say no more, worthy Master Seadrift, and 
take the gold. To confess the truth, the goods 
are in the periagua and fairly out of the river. I 
knew we should come to conclusions in the mat- 
ter, and time is precious, as there is a cruiser of 
the queen so nigh. The rogues will pass the 
pennant, like innocent market-people, and I’ll 
risk, a Flemish gelding against a Virginia nag, 
that they inquire if the captain has no need of 
vegetables for his soup! Ah-ha-ha-ha! That 
Ludlow is a simpleton, niece of mine, and he is 
not yet fit to deal with men of mature years. 
You’ll think better of his qualities, one day, and 
bid him be gone like an unwelcome dun.” 

“ I hope these proceedings may be legally 
sanctioned, uncle ? ” h 

“Sanctioned! Luck sanctions all. It is in 
trade as in war ; success gives character and booty 
in both. Your rich dealer is sure to be your hon- 
est dealer. Plantations and orders in Council ! 
What are our rulers doing at home, that they 
need be so vociferous about a little contraband ? 
The rogues will declaim by the hour concerning 
bribery and corruption, while more than half of 
them get their seats as clandestinely — ay, and as 
illegally, as you get these rare Mechlin laces.— 
Should the queen take offence at our dealings, 
Master Seadrift, bring me another season or two 
as profitable as the last, and I’ll be your passen- 
ger to London, go on ’change, buy a seat in Parlia- 
ment, and answer to the royal displeasure from 
my place, as they call it. By the responsibility 
of the States-General ! but I should expect, in 
such a case, to return Sir Myndert, and then 
the Manhattanese might hear of a Lady Yan 
Beverout, in which case, pretty Alida, thy assets 
would be sadly diminished ! — so go to thy bed, j 
child, and dream of fine laces, and rich velvets, 
and duty to old uncles, and discretion, and all 
manner of agreeable things— kiss me, jade, and 
to thy pillow.” 

Alida obeyed, and was preparing to quit the 
room, when the free-trader presented himself be- 
fore her with an air at once so gallant and re- 
spectful, that she could scarce take offence at 
the freedom. 

“ I should fail in gratitude,” he said, “were I 


THE ALDERMAN’S FEARS. 


53 


to part from so generous a customer without 
thanks for her liberality. The hope of meeting 
again will hasten my return.” 

“I know not that you are my debtor for these 
thanks,” returned Alida, though she saw that the 
alderman was carefully collecting the contents 
of the bale, and that he had already placed three 
or four of the most tempting of its articles on 
her dressing-table. “ We cannot be said to have 
bargained.” 

“ I have parted with more than is visible to 
vulgar eyes,” returned the stranger, dropping his 
voice, and speaking with an earnestness that 
caused his auditor to start. “ Whether there 
will be a return for the gift, or perhaps I had bet- 
ter call it loss, time and my stars must show ! ” 

He then took her hand, and raised it to his 
lips, by an action so graceful and so gentle, as 
not to alarm the maiden until the freedom was 
done. La belle Barberie reddened to her fore- 
head, seemed disposed to condemn the liberty, 
frowned, smiled, and, courtesying in confusion, 
withdrew. 

Several minutes passed in profound silence, 
after Alida had disappeared. The stranger was 
thoughtful, though his bright eye kindled, as if 
merry thoughts were uppermost ; and he paced 
the room, entirely heedless of the existence of 
the alderman. The latter, however, soon took 
occasion to remind his companion of his pres- 
ence. 

“No fear of the girl’s prating,” exclaimed 
the alderman, when his task was ended. “ She 
is an excellent and dutiful niece; and here, you 
see, is a balance on her side of the account, that 
would shut the mouth of the wife of the first 
lord of the treasury. I disliked the manner in 
which you would have the child introduced ; for, 
look you, I do not think that either Monsieur 
Barberie, or my late sister, would altogether ap- 
prove of her entering into traffic so very young ; 
— but what is done, is done ; and the Norman 
himself could not deny that I have made a fair 
set-off, of very excellent commodities, for his 
daughter’s benefit.— When dost mean to sail, 
Master Seadrift ? ” 

“ With the morning tide. I little like the 
neighborhood of these meddling guardacostas .” 

“ Bravely answered ! Prudence is a cardinal 
quality in a private trader ; and it is a quality that 
I esteem in Master Skimmer, next to his punctu- 
ality. Dates and obligations ! I wish half of the 
firms, of three and four names, without counting 
the Co.’s, were as much to be depended on. Dost 
not think it safer to repass the inlet under favor 
of the darkness ? ” 


“ ’Tis impossible. The flood is entering it like 
water rushing through a race-way, and we have 
the wind at east. But, fear not ; the brigantine 
carries no vulgar freight, and your commerce has 
given us a swept hold. The queen and the Bra- 
ganza, with Holland ducats, might show their 
faces even in the Royal Exchequer itself! We 
have no want of passes, and the Miller’s-Maid is 
just as good a name to hail by as the Water- 
Witch. We begin to tire of this constant run- 
ning, and have half a mind to taste the pleasures 
of your Jersey sports for a week. There should 
be shooting on the upper plains ? ” 

“Heaven forbid! Heaven forbid! Master 
Seadrift. I had all the deer taken for the skins, 
ten years ago ; and as to birds, they deserted us 
to a pigeon, when the last tribe of the savages 
went west of the Delaware. Thou hast dis- 
charged thy brigantine to better effect than thou 
couldst ever discharge thy fowling-pieces. I 
hope the hospitality of the Lust in Rust is no 
problem — but, blushes and curiosity! I could 
wish to keep a fair countenance among my 
neighbors. Art sure the impertinent masts of 
the brigantine will not be seen above the trees, 
when the day comes ? This Captain Ludlow is 
no laggard when he thinks his duty actually con- 
cerned.” 

“ We shall endeavor to keep him quiet. The 
cover of the trees and the berth of the boat make 
all snug, as respfcts his people. I leave worthy 
Tiller to settle balances between us; and so, I 
take my leave. Master Alderman — a word at 
parting. Does the Viscount Cornbury still tarry 
in the provinces ? ” 

“ Like a fixture. There is not a mercantile 
house in the colony more firmly established.” 

“ There are unsettled affairs between us— a 
small premium would buy the obligations—” 

“Heaven keep thee, Master Seadrift, and 
pleasant voyages back and forth ! As for the 
viscount’s responsibility — the queen may trust 
him with another province, but Myndert Van 
Beverout would not give him credit for the tail 
of a marten ; and so, again, Heaven preserve 
thee ! ” 

The dealer in contraband appeared to tear 
himself from the sight of all the little elegances 
that adorned the apartment of la belle Barberie, 
with reluctance. His adieus to the alderman 
were rather cavalier, for he still maintained a cold 
and abstracted air; but as the other scarcely ob- 
served the forms of decorum, in his evident de- 
sire to get rid of his guest, the latter was finally 
obliged to depart. He disappeared by the low 
balcony, where he had entered. 


54 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


When Hyndert Yan Beverout was alone, he 
shut the windows of the pavilion of his niece, 
and retired to his own part of the dwelling. 
Here the thrifty burgher first busied himself in 
making sundry calculations, with a zeal that 
proved how much his mind was engrossed by the 
occupation. After this preliminary step, he gave 
a short but secret conference to the mariner of 
the India shawl, during which there was much 
clinking of gold-pieces. But when the latter re- 
tired, the master of the villa first looked to the 
trifling securities which were then, as now, ob- 
served in the fastenings of an American country- 
house ; when he walked forth upon the lawn, like 
one who felt the necessity of breathing the open 
air. He cast more than one inquiring glance at 
the windows of the room which was occupied by 
Oloff Yan Staats, where all was happily silent ; 
at the equally immovable brigantine in the cove ; 
and at the more distant and still motionless hull 
of the cruiser of the crown. All around him was 
in the quiet of midnight. Even the boats, which 
he knew to be plying between the land and the lit- 
tle vessel at anchor, were invisible ; and he reen- 
tered his habitation, with the security one would 
be apt to feel, under similar circumstances, in a 
region so little tenanted, and so little watched, 
as that in which he lived. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ Come on, Nerissa ; I have work in hand, 

That you, yet, know not of.” 

Merchant op Venice. 

Notwithstanding the active movements which 
had taken place in and around the buildings of 
the Lust in Rust, during the night which ended 
with our last chapter, none but the initiated were 
in the smallest degree aware of their existence, 
Oloff Yan Staats was early afoot ; and when he 
appeared on the lawn, to scent the morning air, 
there was nothing visible to give rise to a suspi- 
cion that aught extraordinary had occurred during 
his slumbers. La Cour des Fees was still closed, 
but the person of the faithful Francis was seen, 
near the abode of his young mistress, busied in 
some of those pretty little offices that can easily 
be imagined would be agreeable to a maiden of 
her years and station. Yan Staats of Kinder- 
hook had as little of romance in his composition 
as could well be in a youth of five-and-twenty 
who was commonly thought to be enamoured, and 
who was not altogether ignorant of the conven- 
tional sympathies of the passion. The man was 


mortal, and as the personal attractions of la belle 
Barberie were sufficiently obvious, he had not 
entirely escaped the fate, which seems nearly in- 
separable from young fancy, when excited by 
beauty. He drew nigh to the pavilion, and, by a 
guarded but decisive manoeuvre, he managed to 
come so close to the valet as to render a verbal 
communication not only natural, but nearly un- 
avoidable. 

“ A fair mom and a healthful air, Monsieur 
Francis,” commenced the young patroon, ac- 
knowledging the low salute of the domestic, by 
gravely lifting his own beaver. “ This is a com- 
fortable abode for the warm months, and one it 
might be well to visit oftener.” 

“ When Monsieur le Patteron shall be de lor’ 
of ce manor, aussi, he shall come when he shall 
have la volonte,” returned Francis, who knew 
that a pleasantry of his ought not to be con- 
strued into an engagement on the part of her he 
served, while it could not fail to be agreeable to 
him who heard it. “ Monsieur de Yan Staats 
est grand proprietaire sur la riviere, and one day, 
peut-etre, he shall be proprietaire sur la mer ! ” 

“ I have thought of imitating the example of 
the alderman, honest Francis, and of building a 
villa on the coast : but there will be time for that 
when I shall find myself more established in life ! 
Your young mistress is not yet moving, Fran- 
cis ? ” 

“ Ma foi, non — Mam’selle Alide sleep ! — ’tis 
good symptome, Monsieur Patteron, pour les 
jeunes personnes, to tres-bien sleep. Monsieur, 
et toute la famille de Barberie sleep & merveille ! 
Oui, c’est toujours une famille remarquable pour 
le sommeil ! ” 

“ Yet one would wish to breath this fresh and 
invigorating air, which comes from off the sea, 
like a balm in the early hours of the day.” 

“Sans doute, monsieur. C’est un miracle, 
how mam’selle love de air! Personne do not 
love air more, as Mam’selle Alide. Bah ! — it was 
grand plaisir to see how Monsieur de Barberie 
love de air ! ” 

“Perhaps, Mr. Francis, your young lady is ' 
ignorant of the hour. It might be well to knock ! 
at the door, or perhaps at the window. I confess j 
I should much admire to see her bright face 
smiling from that window on this soft morning ! 
scene.” 

It is not probable that the imagination of the 
Patroon of Kinderhook ever before took so high 
a flight ; and there was reason to suspect, by the 
wavering and alarmed glance that he cast around 
him after so unequivocal an expression of weak- 
ness, that he already repented his temerity. 


THE BURGHER’S GUEST. 


55 


Francis, who would not willingly disoblige a man 
that was known to possess a hundred thousand 
acres of land, with manorial rights, besides per- 
sonals of no mean amount, felt embarrassed by 
the request ; but was enabled to recollect in time 
that the heiress was known to possess a decision 
of character that might choose to control her own 
pleasures. 

“ Well, I shall be too happy to knock ; mais, 
monsieur, sais dat sleep est si agreable pour les 
jeunes personnes ! On n’a jamais knock, dans 
la famille de Monsieur de Barberie, and je suis 
sur que Mam’selle Alide do not love to hear de 
knock — pourtant, si Monsieur le Patteron le veut, 
I shall consult ses — voilii ! Monsieur Bevre, 
qui vient sans knock & la fenetre. J’ai l’hon- 
neur de vous laisser avec Monsieur Al’erman.” 

And so the complaisant but still considerate 
valet bowed himself out of a dilemma, that he 
found, as he muttered to himself, while retiring, 
“ Tant soit peu ennuyant.” 

The air and manner of the alderman, as he 
approached his guest, were like the character of 
the man, hale, hearty, and a little occupied with 
his own enjoyments and feelings. He hemmed 
thrice, ere he was near enough to speak ; and 
each of the strong expirations seemed to invite 
the admiration of the patroon, for the strength 
of his lungs, and for the purity of the atmos- 
phere around a villa which acknowleged him for 
its owner. 

“ Zephyrs and spas ! but this is the abode of 
health, patroon ! ” cried the burgher, as soon as 
these demonstrations of his own bodily condition 
had been sufficiently repeated. “ One sometimes 
feels in this air equal to holding a discourse across 
the Atlantic with his friends at Scheveling or the 
Helder. A broad and deep chest air like this 
from the sea, with a clear conscience and a lucky 
hit in the way of trade, cause the lungs of a man 
to play as easily and as imperceptibly as the 
wings of a humming-bird. Let me see ; there 
are few fourscore men in thy stock. The last 
patroon closed the books at sixty-six ; and his 
father went but a little beyond seventy. I won- 
der there has never been an intermarriage 
among you with the Yan Courtlandts ; that blood 
is as good as an insurance to fourscore and ten 
of itself.” 

“ I find the air of your villa, Mr. Yan Bever- 
out, a cordial that one could wish to take often,” 
returned the other, who had far less of the 
brusque manner of the trader than his compan- 
ion. “ It is a pity that all who have the choice 
do not profit by their opportunities to breathe 
it.” 


“ You allude to the lazy mariners in yon ves- 
sel ! Her majesty’s servants are seldom in a 
hurry ; and as for this brigantine in the cove, the 
fellow seems to have got in by magic ! I war- 
rant me, now, the rogue is there for no good, 
and that the queen’s exchequer will be none the 
richer for his visit. — Harkee, you Brom,” calling 
to an aged black who was working at no great 
distance from the dwelling, and who was deep in 
his master’s confidence, “ hast seen any boats 
plying between yonder roguish-looking brigantine 
and the land ? ” 

The negro shook his head like the earthen 
image of a mandarin, and laughed loud and 
heartily. 

“ I b’rieve he do all he mischief among a 
Yankee, an’ he only come here to take he breat’,” 
said the wily slave. “ Well, I wish wid all a 
heart dere would come free-trader some time 
along our shore. Dat gib a chance to poor 
black man to make an honest penny ! ” 

“You see, patroon, human nature itself rises 
against monopoly ! That was the voice of in- 
stinct speaking with the tongue of Brom ; and it 
is no easy task for a merchant to keep his de- 
pendants obedient to laws which in themselves 
create so constant a temptation to break them. 
Well, well ; we will always hope for the best, and 
endeavor to act like dutiful subjects. The boat 
is not amiss as to form and rig, let her come from 
where she will. Dost think the wind will be off 
the land this morning ? ” 

“ There are signs of a change in the clouds. 
One could wish that all should be out in the air 
to taste this pleasant sea-breeze while it lasts.” 

“ Come, come,” cried the alderman, who had 
for a moment studied the state of the heavens 
with a solicitude that he feared might attract 
his companion’s attention, “we will taste our 
breakfast. This is the spot to show the use of 
teeth ! The negroes have • not been idle during 
the night, Mr. Yan Staats — he-e-em — I say, sir, 
they have not been idle : and we shall have a 
choice among the dainties of the river and bay. 
That cloud above the mouth of the Raritan ap- 
pears to rise, and we may yet have a breeze at 
west ! ” 

“Yonder comes a boat in the direction of the 
city,” observed the other, reluctantly obeying a 
motion of the alderman to retire to the apartment 
where they were accustomed to break their fasts. 
“ To me it seems to approach with more than or- 
dinary speed.” 

“ There are stout arms at its oars ! Can it be 
a messenger for the cruiser ? no — it rather steers 
more for our own landing. These Jerseymen are 


56 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


often overtaken by the night, between York and 
their own doors. And now, patroon, we will to 
our knives and forks, like men who have taken 
the best stomachics.” 

“And are we to refresh ourselves alone?” 
demanded the young man, who ever and anon 
cast a sidelong and wistful glance at the closed 
and immovable shutters of la Cour des Fees. 

“ Thy mother hath spoilt thee, young Oloff; 
unless the coffee comes from a pretty female hand, 
it loses its savor. I take thy meaning, and think 
none the worse of thee ; for the weakness is nat- 
ural at thy years. Celibacy and independence ! 
A man must get beyond forty, before he is ever 
sure of being his own master. — Come hither, Mas- 
ter Francis. It is time my niece had shaken off 
this laziness, and shown her bright face to the sun. 
We wait for her fair services at the table. — I see 
nothing of that lazy hussy, Dinah, any more than 
of her mistress.” 

“Assurement non, monsieur,” returned the 
valet ; “ Mam’selle Dinah do not love trop d’acti- 
vite. Mais, Monsieur Al’erman, elles sont jeunes, 
toutes les deux ! Le sommeil est bien salutaire 
pour la jeunesse.” 

“ The girl is no longer in her cradle, Francis, 
and it is time to rattle at the windows. As for 
the black minx, who should have been up and at 
her duty this hour, there will be a balance to set- 
tle between us. — Come, patrocn — the appetite 
will not await the laziness of a wilful girl ; we 
will to the table. — Dost think the wind will stand 
at west this morning ? ” 

Thus saying, the alderman led the way into 
the little parlor, where a neat and comfortable ser- 
vice invited them to break their morning fast. 
He was followed by Oloff Yan Staats with a lin- 
gering step, for the young man really longed to 
see the windows of the pavilion open, and the 
fair face of Alida smiling amid the other beauti- 
ful objects of the scene. Francois proceeded to 
take such measures to arouse his mistress as he 
believed to comport with his duty to her uncle, 
and his own ideas of Menseance. After some lit- 
tle delay, the alderman and his guest took their 
seats at the table ; the former loudly protesting 
against the necessity of waiting for the idle, and 
throwing in an occasional moral concerning the 
particular merit of punctuality in domestic econo- 
my, as well as in the affairs of commerce. 

“ The ancients divided time,” said the somewhat 
pertinacious commentator, “ into years, months, 
weeks, days, hours, minutes, and moments, as 
they divided numbers into units, tens, hundreds, 
thousands, and tens of thousands ; and both with 
an object. If we commence at the bottom, and 


employ well the moments, Mr. Yan Staats, we turn 
the minutes into tens, the hours into hundreds, 
and the weeks and months into thousands — ay ! 
and when there is a happy state of trade, into tens 
of thousands! Missing an hour, therefore, is 
somewhat like dropping an important figure in a 
complex calculation, and the whole labor may be 
useless, for want of punctuality in one, as for want 
of accuracy in the other. Your father, the late 
patroon, was what may be called a minute-man. 
He was as certain to be seen in his pew, at church, 
at the stroke of the clock, as to pay a bill when its 
items had been properly examined. Ah ! it was 
a blessing to hold one of his notes, though they 
were far scarcer than broad pieces or bullion. I 
have heard it said, patroon, that the manor is 
backed by plenty of Johannes and Dutch duc- 
ats ! ” 

“ The descendant has no reason to reproach 
his ancestors with want of foresight.” 

“ Prudently answered — not a word too much 
nor too little — a principle on which all honest 
men settle their accounts. By proper manage- 
ment, such a foundation might be made to up- 
hold an estate that should count thousands with 
the best of Holland or England. Growth and 
majority ! patroon ; but we of the colonies must 
come to man’s estate in time, like our cousins on 
the dikes of the Low Countries, or our rulers 
among the smithies of England. — Erasmus, look 
at that cloud over the Raritan, and tell me if it 
rises.” 

The negro reported that the vapor was station- 
ary ; and, at the same time, by way of episode, 
he told his master that the boat which had been I 
seen approaching the land had reached the wharf, j 
and that some of its crew were ascending the hill | 
toward the Lust in Rust. 

“ Let them come of all hospitality,” returned ■ 
the alderman, heartily ; “ I warrant me, they are j 
honest farmers from the interior, a-hungered with J 
the toil of the night. Go tell the cook to feed j 
them with the best, and bid them welcome. And 
harkee, boy — if there be among them any com- ! 
fortable yeoman, bid the man enter and sit at our 
table. This is not a country, patroon, to be nice 
about the quality of the cloth a man has on his 
back, or whether he wears a wig or only his own 
hair. — What is the fellow gaping at ? ” 

Erasmus rubbed his eyes, and then showing 
his teeth to the full extent of a double row, that 
glittered like pearls, he gave his master to under- 
stand that the negro, introduced to the reader 
under the name of Euclid, and who was certainly 
his own brother of the half-blood, or by the moth- 
er’s side, was entering the villa. The intelligence 


CONFLICTING REPORTS. 


57 


caused a sudden cessation of the masticating pro- 
cess in the alderman, who had not, however, time 
to express his wonder ere two doors simultane- 
ously opened, and Francis presented himself at 
the one, while the shining and doubting face of 
the slave from town darkened the other. The 
eyes of Myndert rolled first to this side, then to 
that, a certain misgiving of the heart preventing 
him from speaking to either ; for he saw, in the 
disturbed features of each, omens that bade him 
prepare himself for unwelcome tidings. The 
reader will perceive, by the description we shall 
give, that there was abundant reason for the 
sagacious burgher’s alarm. 

The visage of the valet, at all times meagre 
and long, seemed extended to far more than its 
usual dimensions, the under jaw appearing fallen 
and trebly attenuated. The light-blue, protruding 
eyes were open to the utmost, and they expressed 
a certain confused wildness, that was none the 
less striking for the painful expression of the 
mental suffering with which it was mingled. 
Both hands were raised, with the palms outward ; 
while the shoulders of the poor fellow were ele- 
vated so high as entirely to destroy the little sym- 
metry that nature had bestowed on that particu- 
lar part of his frame. 

On the other hand, the look of the negro was 
guilty, dogged, and cunning. His eye leered 
askance, seeming to wish to play around the per- 
son of his master, as it will be seen his language 
endeavored to play around his understanding. The 
hands crushed the crown of a woollen hat between 
their fingers, and one of his feet described semi- 
circles with its toe, by performing nervous evolu- 
tions on its heel. 

“Well!” ejaculated Myndert, regarding each 
in turn, “what news from the Canadas? — Ys 
the queen dead, or has she restored the colony to 
the United Provinces ? ” 

“ Mam’selle Alide ! ” exclaimed, or rather 
groaned, Framjois. 

“ The poor dumb beast ! — ” muttered Eu- 
clid. 

The knives and the forks fell from the hands 
of Myndert and his guest, as it were by a simul- 
taneous paralysis. The latter involuntarily arose ; 
while the former planted his solid person still 
more firmly it its seat, like one who was prepar- 
ing to meet some severe and expected shock with 
all the physical resolution he could muster. 

“ What of my niece ? — What of my geldings ? 
— You have called upon Dinah ? ” 

“ Sans doute, monsieur ! ” 

“ — And you kept the keys of the stable ? ” 

“ I nebber let him go at all ! ” 


“ — And you bade her call her mistress ? ” 

“ She no make answair, du tout.” 

“ — The animals were fed and watered, as I 
ordered ? ” 

“ ’Em neber take he food better ! ” 

“ — You entered the chamber of my niece, 
yourself, to awake her ? ” 

“ Monsieur a raison.” 

“ What the devil has befallen the innocent ? ” 
“He lose he stomach quite, and I t’ink it 
great time ’fore it ebber come back.” 

“ Mister Francis, I desire to know the answer 
of Monsieur Barberie’s daughter.” 

“ Mam’selle no repond, monsieur ; pas un syl- 
lable ! V 

“ Drenchers and fleams ! The beauty should 
have been drenched and blooded — ” 

“ Hem’m too late for dat, masser, on honor.” 
“ — The obstinate hussy ! This comes of her 
Huguenot breed, a race that would quit bouse 
and lands rather than change its place of wor- 
ship ! ” 

“ La famille de Barberie est honorable, mon- 
sieur, mais le Grand Monarque fut un peu trop 
exigeant. Yraiment, la dragonade etait mal 
avisee, pour faire des Chretiens ! ” 

“ Apoplexies and hurry ! you should have 
sent for the farrier to administer to the sufferer, 
thou black hound ! ” 

“ ’Em go for a butcher, masser, to save he 
skin, for he war too soon dead.” 

The word dead produced a sudden pause. 
The preceding dialogue had been so rapid, and 
question and answer, no less than the idea3 of 
the principal speaker, had got so confused, that, 
for a moment, he was actually at a loss to under- 
stand whether the last great debt of Nature had 
been paid by la belle Barberie or one of the 
Flemish geldings. Until now, consternation, as 
well as the confusion of the interview, had con- 
strained the patroon to be silent, but he profited 
by the breathing-time to interpose. 

“ It is evident, Mr. Yan Beverout,” he said, 
speaking with a tremor in the voice which be- 
trayed his own uneasiness, “that some untoward 
event has occurred. Perhaps the negro and I 
had better retire, that you may question Francis 
concerning that which hath befallen Mademoiselle 
Barberie, more at your leisure.” 

The alderman was recalled from a profound 
stupor, by this gentlemanlike and considerate 
proposal. He bowed his acknowledgments, and 
permitted Mr. Yan Staats to quit the room ; when 
Euclid would have followed, he signed to the ne- 
gro to remain. ' 

“ I may have occasion to question thee fur- 


58 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


ther,” he said, in a voice that had lost most of 
that compass and depth for which it was so re- 
markable. “ Stand there, sirrah, and be in readi- 
ness to answer. — And now, Hr. Francis, I desire 
to know why my niece declines taking breakfast 
with myself and my guest ? ” 

“ Hon Dieu, monsieur, it is not possible y re- 
pondre. Les sentiments des demoiselles are 
nevair decides ! ” 

“ Go, then, and say to her that my sentiments 
are decided to curtail certain bequests and de- 
vises, which have consulted her interest more 
than strict justice to others of my blood, ay, 
and even of my name, might dictate.” 

“ Monsieur y reflechira. Mam’selle Alide be 
so young personne ! ” 

“ Old or young, my mind is made up ; and so 
to your Cour des Fees, and tell the lazy minx as 
much. — Thou hast ridden that innocent, thou 
scowling imp of darkness ! ” 

“ Mais, pensez-y, je vous en prie, monsieur. 
Mam’selle shall nevair se sauver encore ; jamais, 
je vous en repond.” 

“What is the fellow jabbering about?” ex- 
claimed the alderman, whose mouth fell nearly 
to the degree that rendered the countenance of 
the valet so singularly expressive of distress. 
“ Where is my niece, sir? — and what means this 
allusion to her absence ? ” 

“La fille de Monsieur de Barberie n’y est 
pas ! ” cried Francois, whose heart was too full 
to utter more. The aged and affectionate do- 
mestic laid his hand on his breast, with an air 
of acute suffering ; then, remembering the pres- 
ence of his superior, he turned, bowed with a 
manner of profound condolence, struggled man- 
fully with his own emotion, and succeeded* in 
getting out of the room with dignity and steadi- 
ness. 

It is due to the character of Alderman Van 
Beverout to say that the blow occasioned by the 
sudden death of the Flemish gelding lost some of 
its force, in consequence of so unlooked-for a re- 
port concerting the inexplicable absence of his 
niece. Euclid was questioned, menaced, and even 
anathematized, more than once, during the next 
ten minutes ; but the cunning slave succeeded in 
confounding himself so effectually with the rest 
of his connections of the half blood, during the 
search which instantly followed the report of Fran- 
ks, that his crime was partially forgotten. 

On entering la Cour des Fees, it was, in truth, 
found to want her whose beauty and grace had 
lent its chief attraction. The outer rooms, which 
were small, and* ordinarily occupied during the 
day by Francis and the negress called Dinah, 


and in the night by the latter only, were in a state 
in which they might be expected to be seen. 
The apartment of the attendant furnished evi- 
dence that its occupant had quitted it in haste, 
though there was every appearance of her having 
retired to rest at the usual hour. Clothes were 
scattered carelessly about ; and though most of 
her personal effects had disappeared, enough re- 
mained to prove that her departure had been hur- 
ried and unforeseen. 

On the other hand, the little saloon, and the 
dressing-room and bedroom of la belle Barberie, 
were in a state of the most studied arrangement. 
Not an article of furniture was displaced, a door 
ajar, or a window open. The pavilion had evi- 
dently been quitted by its ordinary passage, and 
the door had been closed in the customary man- 
ner, without using the fastenings. The bed 
had evidently not been entered, for the linen 
was smooth and untouched. In short, so com- 
plete was the order of the place that, yielding 
to a powerful natural feeling, the alderman called 
aloud on his truant niece, by name, as if he ex- 
pected to see her appear from some place, in 
which she had secreted her person, in idle sport. 
But this touching expedient was vain. The voice 
sounded hollow through the deserted rooms ; 
and, though all waited long to listen, there came 
no playful or laughing answer back. 

“ Alida ! ” cried the burgher, for the fourth and 
last time, “come forth, child; I forgive thee thy 
idle sport, and all I have said of disinheritance 
was but a jest. Come forth, my sister’s daughter, 
and kiss thy old uncle ! ” 

The patroon turned aside, as he heard a man 
so known for his worldliness yielding to the power 
of Nature ; and the lord of a hundred thousand 
acres forgot his own disappointment, in the force 
of sympathy. 

“ Let us retire,” he said, gently urging the 
burgher to quit the place. “ A little reflection 
will enable us to decide what should be done.” 

The alderman complied. Before quitting the 
place, however, its closets and drawers were ex- 
amined ; and the search left no further doubts of 
the step which the young heiress had taken. 
Her clothes, books, utensils for drawing, and even 
the lighter instruments of music, had disap- 
peared. 


ALIDA’S DISAPPEARANCE DISCUSSED. 


59 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ Ay, that way goes the game, 

Now I perceive that she hath made compare 
Between our statures.” 

Midsummer-Night's Dream. 

The tide of existence floats downward, and 
with it go, in their greatest strength, all those affec- 
tions that unite families and kindred. We learn 
to know our parents in the fulness of their rea- 
son, and commonly in the perfection of their bod- 
ily strength. Reverence and respect both mingle 
with our love ; but the affection with which we 
watch the helplessness of infancy, the interest 
with which we see the ingenious and young profit- 
ing by our care, the pride of improvement, and 
the magic of hope, create an intensity of sympathy 
in their favor, that almost equals the identity of 
self-love. There is a mysterious and double exist- 
ence in the tie that binds the parent to the child. 
With a volition and passions of its own, the lat- 
! ter has power to plant a sting in the bosom of the 
former, that shall wound as acutely as the errors 
which arise from mistakes, almost from crimes, 
of its own. But, when the misconduct of the 
I descendant can be traced to neglect, or to a vi- 
cious instruction, then, indeed, even the pang of 
a wounded conscience may be added to the suffer- 
| ings of those who have gone before. Such, in 
some measure, was the nature of the pain that 
Alderman Yan Beverout was condemned to feel, 
when at leisure to reflect on the ill-judged meas- 
ure that had been taken by la belle Barberie. 

“ She was a pleasant and coaxing minx, pa- 
troon,” said the burgher, pacing the room they 
occupied with a quick and heavy step, and speak- 
ing unconsciously of his niece, as of one already 
beyond the interests of life ; “ and as wilful and 
headstrong as an unbroken colt. — Thou hard-rid- 
ing imp ! I shall never find a match for the poor 
disconsolate survivor. — But the girl had a thou- 
sand agreeable and delightful ways with her, that 
made her the delight of my old days. She has not 
done wisely, to desert the friend and guardian of 
her youth, ay, even of her childhood, in order to 
seek protection from strangers. This is an un- 
happy world, Mr. Yan Staats. All our calcula- 
tions come to naught ; and it is in the power of 
Fortune to reverse the most reasonable and wisest 
of our expectations. A gale of wind drives the 
richly-freighted ship to the bottom; a sudden 
fall in the market robs us of our gold, as the 
November wind strips the oak of its leaves ; and 
bankruptcies and decayed credit often afflict the 
days of the oldest houses, as disease saps the 


strength of the body. — Alida ! Alida ! thou hast 
wounded one that never harmed thee, and ren- 
dered my age miserable ! ” 

“ It is vain to contend with the inclinations,” 
returned the proprietor of the manor, sighing in 
a manner that did no discredit to the sincerity of 
his remark. “ I could have been happy to have 
placed your niece in the situation that my re- 
spected mother filled with so much dignity and 
credit, but it is now too late — ” 

“We don’t know that; we don’t know that,” 
interrupted the alderman, who still clung to the 
hope of effecting the first great wish of his heart, 
with the pertinacity with which he would have 
clung to the terms of any other fortunate bargain. 
“We should never despair, Mr. Yan Staats, as 
long as the transaction is left open.” 

“ The manner in which Mademoiselle Barbe- 
rie has expressed her preference is so very de- 
cided, that I see no hope of completing the ar- 
rangement.” 

“Mere coquetry, sir, mere coquetry! The 
girl has disappeared in order to enhance the val- 
ue of her future submission. One should never 
regard a treaty at an end, so long as reasonable 
hopes remain that it may be productive to the 
parties.” 

“ I fear, sir, there is more of the coquette in 
this step of the young lady than a gentleman can 
overlook,” returned the patroon, a little dryly, 
and with far more point than he was accustomed 
to use. “ If the commander of her majesty’s 
cruiser be not a happy man, he will not have oc- 
casion to reproach his mistress with disdain ! ” 

“ I am not certain, Mr. Yan Staats, that in the 
actual situation of our stipulations, I ought to 
overlook an innuendo that seems to reflect on the 
discretion of my ward. Captain Ludlow — well, 
sirrah ! what is the meaning of this imperti- 
nence ? ” 

“ He’m waiting to see masser,” returned the 
gaping Erasmus, who stood with the door in his 
hand, admiring the secret intelligence of his mas- 
ter, who had so readily anticipated his errand. 

“ Who is waiting ? — What does the simpleton 
mean ? ” 

“ I mean a gentle'um masser say.” 

“ The fortunate man is here to remind us of 
his success,” haughtily observed Yan Staats of 
Kinderhook. “ There can be no necessity for my 
presence at an interview between Alderman Yan 
Beverout and his nephew.” 

The justly-mortified patroon bowed ceremo- 
niously to the equally disappointed burgher, and 
left the room the moment he had done speaking. 
The negro took his retreat as a favorable symp- 


60 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


tom for one who was generally known to be his 
rival ; and he hastened to inform the young cap- 
tain that the coast was clear. 

The meeting that succeeded was sufficiently 
constrained and awkward. Alderman Van Bev- 
erout assumed a manner of offended authority 
and wounded affection ; while the officer of the 
queen wore an air of compelled submission to a 
duty that he found to be disagreeable. The in- 
troduction of the discourse was consequently 
ceremonious, and punctiliously observant of cour- 
tesy. 

“It has become my office,” continued Lud- 
low, after the preliminaries had been observed, 
“ to express the surprise I feel that a vessel of 
the exceedingly equivocal appearance of the brig- 
antine, that is anchored in the cove, should be 
found in a situation to create unpleasant suspi- 
cions concerning the commercial propriety of a 
merchant so well known as Mr. Alderman Yan 
Beverout.” 

“The credit of Myndert Yan Beverout is too 
well established, Captain Cornelius Ludlow, to 
be affected by the accidental position of ships 
and bays. I see two vessels anchored near the 
Lust in Rust, and if called upon to give my testi- 
mony before the queen in council, I should de- 
clare that the one which wears her royal pennant 
had done more wrong to her subjects than the 
stranger. But what harm i3 known of the lat- 
ter?” 

“ I shall not conceal any of the facts ; for I 
feel that this is a case in which a gentleman of 
your station has the fullest right to the benefit of 
explanations—” 

“ Hem—” interrupted the burgher, who dis- 
liked the manner in which his companion had 
opened the interview, and who thought he saw the 
commencement of a forced compromise in the turn 
it was taking. “ Hem — I commend your modera- 
tion, Captain Ludlow. Sir, we are flattered in 
having a native of the province in so honorable 
a command on the coast. Be seated, I pray you, 
young gentleman, that we may converse more at 
leisure. The Ludlows are an ancient and well- 
established family in the colonies ; and, though 
they were no friends of King Charles, why — we 
have others here in the same predicament. There 
are few crowns in Europe that might not trace 
some of their discontented subjects to these col- 
onies ; and the greater the reason, say I, why we 
should not be too hasty in giving faith to the 
wisdom of this European legislation. I do not 
pretend, sir, to admire all the commercial regula- 
tions which flow from the wisdom of her majesty’s 
counsellors. Candor forbids that I should deny 


this truth; but — what of the brigantine in the 
cove ? ” 

“ It is not necessary to tell one so familiar 
with the affairs of commerce, of the character of 
a vessel called the Water-Witch, nor that of its 
lawless commander, the notorious Skimmer of the 
Seas.” 

“ Captain Ludlow is not about to accuse Aider- 
man Yan Beverout of a connection with such a 
man ! ” exclaimed the burgher, rising as it were 
involuntarily, and actually recoiling a foot or two 
apparently under the force of indignation and sur- 
prise. 

“ Sir, I am not commissioned to accuse any 
of the queen’s subjects. My duty is to guard her 
interests on the water, to oppose her open ene- 
mies, and to uphold her royal prerogatives.” 

“An honorable employment, and one I doubt 
not that is honorably discharged. Resume your 
seat, sir; for I foresee that the conference is 
likely to end as it should, between a son of the 
late very respectable king’s counsellor and his 
father’s friend. You have reason then for think- 
ing that this brigantine which has so suddenly 
appeared in the cove, has some remote connec- 
tion with the Skimmer of the Seas ? ” 

“ I believe the vessel to be the famous Water- 
Witch itself, and her commander to be, of course, 
the well-known adventurer.” 

“Well, sir — well, sir — this may be so. It is 
impossible for me to deny it ; but what should 
such a reprobate be doing here, under the guns 
of a queen’s cruiser ? ” 

“Mr. Alderman, my admiration of your niece 
is not unknown to you.” 

“ I have suspected it, sir,” returned the burgh- 
er, who believed the tenor of the compromise was 
getting clearer, but who still waited to know the 
exact value of the concessions the other party 
would make, before he closed a bargain in a hurry, 
of which he might repent at his leisure. “ In- 
deed, it has even been the subject of some dis- 
course between us.” 

“ This admiration induced me to visit your 
villa the past night — ” 

“ This is a fact too well established, young 
gentleman.” 

“ Whence I took away — ” Ludlow hesitated, 
as if anxious to select his words — 

“ Alida Barb6rie.” 

“ Alida Barberie ! ” 

“ Ay, sir ; my niece, or perhaps I should say 
my heiress, as well as the heiress of old Etienne 
de Barberie. The cruise was short, Captain Cor- 
nelius Ludlow ; but the prize-money will be ample 
— unless, indeed, a claim to neutral privileges 


MUTUAL MISUNDERSTANDING. 


61 


should be established in favor of part of the 
cargo ! ” 

“ Sir, your pleasantry is amusing, but I have 
little leisure for its enjoyment. That I visited the 
Cour des Fees shall not be denied. I think la belle 
Barberie will not be offended, under the circum- 
stances, with this acknowledgment.” 

“ If she is, the jade has a rare squeamishness, 
after what has passed ! ” 

“ I pretend not to judge of more than my duty. 
The desire to serve my royal mistress had induced 
me, Mr. VanBeverout, to cause a seaman of odd 
attire and audacious deportment to enter the Co- 
’ quette. You will know the man when I tell you that 
he was your companion in the island ferry-boat.” 

“ Yes, yes, I confess there was a mariner of 
the long voyage there, who caused much surprise, 
and some uneasiness to myself and niece, as well 
as to Yan Staats of Kinder hook.” 

Ludlow smiled like one not to be deceived, as 
he continued : 

“Well, sir, this man so far succeeded as to 
tempt me to suffer him to land under the obliga- 
tion of some half-extorted promise — we came into 
the river together, and entered your grounds in 
company.” 

Alderman Yan Beverout now began to listen 
like a man who dreaded, while he desired, to catch 
each syllable. Observing that Ludlow paused, 
s and watched his countenance with a cool and 
steady eye, he recovered his self-command, and 
affected a mere ordinary curiosity, while he signed 
to him to proceed. 

“ I am not sure I tell Alderman Yan Beverout 
any thing that is new,” resumed the young officer, 

“ when I add that the fellow suffered me to visit 
the pavilion, and then contrived to lead me into 
* an ambush of lawless men, having previously suc- 
ceeded in making captives of my boat’s crew.” 

“Seizures and warrants!” exclaimed the 
burgher, in his natural strong and hasty manner 
of speaking. “ This is the first I have heard of 
the affair. It was ill-judged, to call it by no other 
term.” 

i Ludlow seemed relieved when he saw by the 
undisguised amazement of his companion that the 
latter was, in truth, ignorant of the manner in 
which he had been detained. 

“ It might not have been, sir, had our watch 
been as vigilant as their artifice was deep,” he 
continued. “ But I was little guarded, and hav- 
ing no means to reach my ship, I — ” 

“Ay, ay, Captain Ludlow; it is not neces- 
sary to be so circumstantial ; you proceeded to 
the wharf, and — ” 

“Perhaps, sir, I obeyed my feelings rather 


than my duty,” observed Ludlow, coloring high, 
when he perceived that the burgher paused to clear 
his throat. “ I returned to the pavilion, where — ” 
“You persuaded a niece to forget her duty to 
her uncle and protector.” 

“ This is a harsh and most unjustifiable charge, 
both as respects the young lady and myself. I 
can distinguish between a very natural desire to 
possess articles of commerce that are denied by 
the laws, and a more deliberate and mercenary 
plot against the revenue of the country. I be- 
lieve there are few of her years and sex who 
would refuse to purchase the articles I saw pre- 
sented to the eyes of la belle Barberie, especially 
when the utmost hazard coifld be no more than 
their loss, as they were already introduced into 
the country.” 

“A just discrimination, and one likely to ren- 
der the arrangement of our little affairs less diffi- 
cult ! I was sure that my old friend the coun- 
sellor would not have left a son of his ignorant 
of principles, more especially as he was about to 
embark in a profession of so much responsibility. 
And so my niece had the imprudence to entertain 
a dealer in contraband ? ” 

“Alderman Yan Beverout, there were boats 
in motion on the water between this landing and 
the brigantine in the cove. A periagua even left 
the river for the city, at the extraordinary hour 
of midnight ! ” 

“ Sir, boats will move on the water, when the 
hands of man set them in motion ; but what have 
I to answer for in the matter ? If goods have 
entered the province without license, why, they 
must be found and condemned ; and if free-trad- 
ers are on the coast, they should be caught. 
Would it not be well to proceed to town, and lay 
the fact of this strange brigantine’s presence be- 
fore the governor, without delay ? ” 

“I have other intentions. If, as you say, 
goods have gone up the bay, it is too late for me 
to stop them ; but it is not too late to attempt to 
seize yon brigantine. Now, I would perform this 
duty in a manner as little likely to offend any of 
reputable name, as my allegiance will admit.” 

“ Sir, I extol this discretion — not that there 
is any testimony to implicate more than the crew, 
but credit is a delicate flower, and it should be 
handled tenderly. I see an opening for an ar- 
rangement — but, we will, as in duty bound, hear 
your propositions first, since you may be said to 
speak with the authority of the queen. I will 
merely surmise that terms should be moderate, 
between friends — perhaps I should say, between 
connections, Captain Ludlow.” 

“ I am flattered by the word, sir,” returned 


62 


THE t^ATER-WITCH. 


the young sailor, smiling with an expression of 
delight. “ First suffer me to be admitted to the 
charming Cour des Fees but for a moment.” 

“ That is a favor which can hardly be refused 
you, who may be said to have a right, now, to 
enter the pavilion at pleasure,” returned the 
alderman, unhesitatingly leading the way through 
the long passage to the deserted apartments of 
his niece, and continuing the blind allusions to 
the affairs of the preceding night, in the same in- 
direct manner as had distinguished the dialogue 
during the whole interview. “ I shall not be un- 
reasonable, young gentleman, and here is the pa- 
vilion of my niece ^ I wish I could add, and here 
also is its mistress ! ” 

“And is la belle Barberie no longer a tenant 
of la Cour des Fees,” demanded Ludlow, in a 
surprise too natural to be feigned. 

Alderman Yan Beverout regarded the young 
man in wonder ; pondered a moment, to consider 
how far denying a knowledge of the absence of 
his niece might benefit the officer, in the pending 
negotiations ; and he dryly observed : “ Boats 
passed on the water, during the night. If the men 
of Captain Ludlow were at first imprisoned, I pre- 
sume they were set at liberty at the proper time.” 

“ They are carried I know not whither — the 
boat itself is gone, and I am here alone.” 

“ Am I to understand, Captain Ludlow, that 
Alida Barberie has not fled my house, during 
the past night, to seek a refuge in your ship ? ” 

“ Fled ! ” echoed the young man, in a voice 
of horror. “ Has Alida de Barberie fled from 
the house of her uncle at all? ” 

“ Captain Ludlow, this is not acting. On the 
honor of a gentleman, are you ignorant of my 
niece’s absence ? ” 

The young commander did not answer ; but, 
striking his head fiercely, he smothered words 
that were unintelligible to his companion. When 
this momentary burst of feeling was past, he 
sank into a chair, and gazed about him in stupid 
amazement. All this pantomime was inexplicable 
to the alderman, who, however, began to see 
that more of the conditions of the arrangement 
in hand were beyond the control of his compan- 
ion than he had at first believed. ' Still the plot 
thickened, rather than grew clear ; and he was 
afraid to speak, lest he might utter more than 
was prudent. The silence, therefore, continued 
for quite a minute ; during which time, the par- 
ties sat gazing at each other in dull wonder. 

“I shall not deny, Captain Ludlow, that I 
believed you had prevailed on my niece to fly 
aboard the Coquette ; for, though a man who 
has always kept his feelings in his own command, 


as the safest manner of managing particular in- 
terests, yet I am not to learn that rash youth is 
often guilty of folly. I am now equally at a loss 
with yourself to know what has become of her, 
since here she is not.” 

“ Hold ! ” eagerly interrupted Ludlow. “A 
boat left your wharf, for the city, in the earlier 
hours of the morning. Is it not possible that 
she may have taken a passage in it ? ” 

“ It is not possible. I have reasons to know 
— in short, sir, she is not there.” 

“ Then is the unfortunate — the lovely — the 
indiscreet girl forever lost to herself and us ! ” 
exclaimed the young sailor, groaning under his I 
mental agony. “ Rash, mercenary man ! to what 
an act of madness has this thirst of gold driven ; 
one so fair — would I could say, so pure and so 
innocent ! ” 

But while the distress of the lover was thus 
violent, and caused him to be so little measured 
in his terms of reproach, the uncle of the fair | 
offender appeared to be lost in surprise. Though 
la belle Barberie had so well preserved the de- 
corum and reserve of her sex, as to leave even 
her suitors in doubt of the way her inclinations 
tended, the watchful alderman had long suspect- 
ed that the more ardent, open, and manly com- 
mander of the Coquette was likely to triumph 
over one so cold in exterior, and so cautious in 
his advances, as the Patroon of Kinderhook. 
When, therefore, it became apparent Alida had 
disappeared, he quite naturally inferred that she 
had taken the simplest manner of defeating all 
his plans for favoring the suit of the latter, by 
throwing herself, at once, into the arms of the! 
young sailor. The laws of the colonies offered 
few obstacles to the legality of their union ; and 
when Ludlow appeared that morning, he firmly' 
believed that he beheld one who, if he were not 
so already, was inevitably soon to become his 
nephew. But the suffering of the disappointed 
youth could not be counterfeited ; and the per- 
plexed alderman seemed utterly at a loss to con- 
jecture what could have become of his niece. 
Wonder, rather than pain, possessed him ; and 
when he suffered his ample chin to repose on the 
finger and thumb of one hand, it was with the air 
of a man that revolved, in his mind, all the 
plausible points of some knotty question. 

“ tides and corners ! ” he muttered, after a 
long silence ; “ the wilful minx cannot be play- 
ing at hide-and-seek with her friends ! The hussy 
had ever too much of la famille de Barberie, and 
her high Norman blood about her, as that silly 
old valet has it, to stoop to such childish trifling. 
Gone she certainly is,” he continued, looking 





“The young commander did not answer; but, striking his head fiercely, he smothered 
words that were unintelligible to his companion.” 


The Water- Witch, p G2, 











JOINT EFFORTS. 


63 


again into the empty drawers and closets, “ and 
with her the valuables have disappeared. The 
guitar is missing — the lute I sent across the 
ocean to purchase, an excellently-toned Dutch 
lute, that cost every stiver of one hundred guild- 
ers, is also wanting, and all the— hem— the re- 
cent accessions have disappeared. And there, 
too, are my sister’s jewels, that I persuaded her 
to bring along, to guard against accidents while 
our backs are turned — they are not to be seen. 
— Francis ! Francis ! Thou long-tried servitor 
of Etienne Barberie, what the devil has become 
of thy mistress ? ” 

“ Mais, monsieur,” returned the disconsolate 
valet, whose decent features exhibited all the 
signs of unequivocal suffering, “she no tell le 
pauvre Francis ! En supposant, que monsieur 
ask le capitaine, he shall probablement know.” 

The burgher cast a quick, suspicious glance at 
Ludlow, and shook his head, to express his belief 
that the young man was true. 

“ Go ; desire Mr. Yan Staats of Kinderhook to 
favor us with his company.” 

“ Hold ! ” cried Ludlow, motioning to the valet 
to withdraw. “ Mr. Beverout, an uncle should be 
tender of the errors of one so dear as this cruel, 
unreflecting girl. You cannot think of abandon- 
ing her to so frightful a fortune ? ” 

“ I am not addicted to abandoning any thing, 
sir, to which my title is just and legal. But you 
i speak in enigmas. If you are acquainted with the 
place where my niece is secreted, avow it frankly, 
and permit me to take those measures which the 
case requires.” 

Ludlow reddened to his forehead, and he 
struggled powerfully with his pride and his regrets. 

“ It is useless to attempt concealing the step 
which Alida Barberie has been pleased to take,” 
he said, a smile so bitter passing over his features 
as to lend them the expression of severe mockery ; 

' “ she has chosen more worthily than either of us 
could have believed ; she has found a companion 
more suited to her station, her character, and her 
sex, than Yan Staats of Kinderhook, or a poor 
commander of a queen’s ship ! ” 

“ Cruisers and manors ! What in the name 
of mysteries is thy meaning? The girl is not 
here ; you declare she is not on board the Co- 
quette ; and there remains only — ” 

“ The brigantine ! ” groaned the young sailor, 
uttering the word by a violent effort of the will. 

“ The brigantine ! ” repeated the alderman, 
slowly. “My niece can have nothing to do 
aboard a dealer in contraband. That is to say, 
Alida Barberie is not a trader.” 

“Alderman Yan Beverout, if we wish to es- 


cape the contamination of vice, its society must 
be avoided. There was one in the pavilion, of a 
mien and assurance the past night, that might 
delude an angel. — Ah! woman! woman! thy 
mind is composed of vanities, and thy imagination 
is thy bitterest foe ! ” 

“Women and vanities!” echoed the amazed 
burgher. “ My niece, the heiress of old Etienne 
Marie de Barberie, and the sought of so many of 
honorable names and respectable professions, to 
be a refugee with a rover — always supposing your 
opinions of the character of the brigantine to be 
just. This is a conjecture too improbable to be 
true.” 

“ The eye of a lover, sir, may be keener than 
that of a guardian — call it jealousy, if you will — 
would to Heaven my suspicions were untrue ! — 
but if she be not there, where is she ? ” 

The opinion of the alderman seemed stag- 
gered. If la belle Barberie had not yielded to 
the fascinations of that wayward but seductive 
eye and smile, to that singular beauty of face, and 
to the secret and often irresistible charm that 
encircles eminent personal attractions, when aid- 
ed by mystery — to what had she yielded, and 
whither had she fled ? 

These were reflections that now began to pass 
through the thoughts of the alderman, as they 
had already planted stings in the bosom of Lud- 
low. With reflection, conviction began slowly to 
assert its power. But the truth did not gleam 
upon the mind of the calculating and wary mer- 
chant, with the same instinctive readiness that it 
had flashed upon the jealous faculties of the lov- 
er. He pondered on each circumstance of the in- 
terview between the dealer in contraband and his 
niece ; recalled the manner and discourse Of the 
former ; drew certain general and vague conjec- 
tures concerning the power which novelty, when 
coupled with circumstances of romance, might 
exercise over a female fancy ; and dwelt long and 
secretly on some important facts that were alone 
known to himself, before his judgment finally set- 
tled down into the same opinion as that which 
his companion had formed, with all the sensitive- 
ness of jealous alarm. 

“ Women and vagaries ! ” muttered the burgh- 
er, after his study was ended. “ Their conceits are 
as uncertain as the profits of a whaling-voyage, 
or the luck of a sportsman. Captain Ludlow, 
your assistance will be needed in this affair ; and 
as it may not be too late, since there are few 
priests in the brigantine — always supposing her 
character to be what you affirm — my niece may 
yet see her error, and be disposed to reward so 
much assiduity and attachment.” 


64 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


“ My services shall always be ready, so long 
as they can be useful to Alida Barberie,” returned 
the young officer with haste, and yet a little cold- 
ly. “ It will be time enough to speak of the re- 
ward when we shall have succeeded.” 

“ The less noise that is made about a little 
domestic inconvenience like this, the better ; and 
I would therefore suggest the propriety of keeping 
our suspicions of the character of the vessel a 
secret, until we shall be better informed.” 

The captain bowed his assent to the proposal. 

“And now that we are of the same mind in 
the preliminaries, we will seek the Patroon of 
Kinderhook, who has a claim to participate in our 
confidence.” 

Myndert then led the way from the empty and 
melancholy Cour des Pees, with a step that had 
regained its busy and firm tread, and a counte- 
nance that expressed far more of vexation and 
weariness than of real sorrow. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ — I’ll give thee a wind. 

— Thou art kind. 

— And I another. 

—I myself have all the other.” 

Macbeth. 

The cloud above the mouth of the Raritan had 
not risen. On the contrary, the breeze still came 
from off the sea; and the brigantine in the cove, 
with the cruiser of the queen, still lay at their an- 
chors, like two floating habitations that were not 
intended to be removed. The hour was that at 
which the character of the day becomes fixed; 
and there was no longer any expectation that a 
land-wind would enable the vessel of the free- 
trader to repass the inlet before the turn of the 
tide, which was again running swiftly on the flood. 

The windows of the Lust in Rust were open, 
as when its owner was present ; and the menials 
were employed in and about the villa in their cus- 
tomary occupations ; though it was evident, by 
the manner in which they stopped to converse, 
and by the frequent conferences which had place 
in secret corners, that they wondered none the 
less at the unaccountable disappearance of their 
young mistress. In all other respects, the villa 
and its grounds were, as usual, quiet and seeming- 
ly deserted. 

But there was a group collected beneath the 
shade of an oak on the margin of the cove, and 
at a point where it was rare for man to be seen. 
This little party appeared to be in waiting for 
some expected communication from the brigan- 


tine ; since they had taken post on the side of the 
inlet next the cape, and in a situation so retired 
as to be entirely hid from any passing observa- 
tion of those who might enter or leave the mouth 
of the Shrewsbury. In short, they were on the 
long, low, and narrow barrier of sand, that now 
forms the projection of the nook, and which, by 
the temporary breach that the cove had made 
between its own waters and that of the ocean, was 
then an island. 

“ Snug should be the motto of a merchant,” 
observed one of these individuals, whose opinions 
will sufficiently announce his name to the reader. 

“ He should be snug in his dealings, and snug in 
his manner of conducting them ; snug in his cred- 
its, and, above all, snug in his speculations. 
There is as little need, gentlemen, in calling in the j 
aid of a posse-comitatus for a sensible man to keep ! 
his household in order, as that a discreet trader 
should go whistling through the public markets, 
with the history of his operations. I gladly court 
two so worthy assistants as Captain Cornelius 
Ludlow and Mr. Oloff Van Staats ; for I know 
there will be no useless gossip concerning the 
trifling derangement that hath occurred. Ah ! 
the black hath had communications with the free- 
trader — always supposing the opinion of Mr. Lud- 
low concerning the character of the vessel to be 
just — and he is quitting the brigantine.” 

Neither of the companions of the alderman 
made any reply. Each watched the movement of 
the skiff that contained their messenger, and each 
seemed to feel an equal interest in the result of 
his errand. Instead, however, of approaching the 
spot where his master and his two friends ex- 
pected him, the negro, though he knew that his 
boat was necessary to enable the party to recross 
the inlet, pulled directly for the mouth of the 
river — a course that was exactly contrary to the 
one he was expected to take. 

“ Rank disobedience ! ” grumbled the incensed 
master. “ The irreverent dog is deserting us, on 
this neck of barren sand, where we are cut off | 
from all communication with the interior, and are as 
completely without intelligence of the state of the 
market, and other necessaries, as men in a desert ! ” 

“ Here comes one that seems disposed to bring 
us to a parley,” observed Ludlow, whose prac- 
tised eye had first detected a boat quitting the 
side of the brigantine, as well as the direction it 
was about to steer. 

The young commander was not deceived ; for 
a light cutter, that played like a bubble on its 
element, was soon approaching the shore, where 
the three expectants were seated. When it was 
near enough to render sight perfectly distinct, and 


65 


ijh 

CAPTAIN LUDLOW DEMANDS THE NAME OF THE BRIGANTINE. 


speech audible without an effort, the crew ceased 
rowing, and permitted the boat to lie in a state 
of rest. The mariner of the India shawl then 
arose in the stern-sheets, and examined the thicket 
behind the party with a curious and suspicious 
V eye. After a sufficient search, he signed to his 
crew to force the cutter still nigher to the land, 
and spoke : 

“ Who has affairs with any of the brigantine ? ” 
he coolly demanded, wearing the air of one who had 
no reason to anticipate the object of their visit. 
“ She has little left that can turn to profit, unless 
^ she parts with her beauty.” 

“Truly, good stranger,” returned the aider- 
man, laying a sufficient emphasis on the latter 
word, “here are none disposed to a traffic, which 
might not be pleasing to the authorities of the 
country, were its nature known. We come with 
a desire to be admitted to a conference with the 
| commander of the vessel, on a matter of especial 
but private concern.” 

“ Why send a public officer on the duty ? I 
see one, there, in the livery of Queen Anne. We 
are no lovers of her majesty’s servants, and would 
not willingly form disagreeable acquaintances.” 

Ludlow nearly bit through his lip, in endeav- 
oring to repress his anger at the cool confidence 
of one who had already treated him with so little 
ceremony, and then momentarily forgetting his 
- object, in professional pride, and perhaps we 
j might add in the habits of his rank, he inter- 
rupted the dialogue : 

“ If you see the livery of the royal authority,” 
he said, haughtily, “ you must be sensible it is 
worn by one who is commissioned to cause its 
rights to be respected. I demand the name and 
^ character of yon brigantine ! ” 

“ As for character, she is, like many another 
beauty, something vituperated ; nay, some carry 
their envy so far as to call it cracked ! But we 
are jolly mariners that sail her, and little heed 
crazy reports at the expense of our mistress. As 
for a name, we answer any hail that is fairly, 
spoken, and well meant. Call us ‘ Honesty,’ if 
you will, for want of the register.” 

“There is much reason to suspect your ves- 
sel of illegal practices ; and, in the name of the 
queen, I demand access to her papers, and the 
liberty of a free search into her cargo and crew. 
EDe will there be necessity to bring her under the 
guns of the cruiser, which lies at no great distance, 
v waiting only for orders.” 

“ It takes no scholar to read our documents, 
Captain Ludlow ; they are written by a light keel 
on the rolling waters, and he who follows in our 
wake may guess at their authority. If you wish 
5 


to overhaul our cargo, you must look sharply in 
to the cuffs and aprons, the negliges and stom- 
achers of the governor’s lady, at the next ball at 
the fort ; or pry into the sail that is set above 
the farthingales of the wife and daughters of your 
admiralty judge ! We are no cheese-mongers, to 
break the shins of a boarding-officer among boxes 
and butter-tubs.” 

“Your brigantine has a name, sirrah; and, 
in her majesty’s authority, I demand to know 
it.” 

“ Heaven forbid that any here should dispute 
the queen’s right ! You are a seaman, Captain 
Ludlow, and have an eye for comeliness in a craft, 
as well as in a woman. Look at those harpings ! 
There is no fall of a shoulder can equal that 
curve, in grace or richness ; this shear surpasses 
the justness and delicacy of any waist ; and there 
you see the transoms, swelling and rounded like 
the outlines of a Venus. Ah ! she is a bewitching 
creature ; and no wonder that, floating as she 
does, on the seas, they should have called her — ” 

“ Water-Witch ! ” said Ludlow, finding that 
the other paused. 

“ You deserve to be one of the sisterhood 
yourself, Captain Ludlow, for this readiness in 
divination ! ” 

“Amazement and surprise, patroon!” ex- 
claimed Myndert, with a tremendous hem. “ Here 
is a discovery to give a respectable merchant 
more uneasiness than the undutiful conduct of 
fifty nieces ! This vessel is then the famous 
brigantine of the notorious Skimmer of the Seas ! 
a man whose misdeeds in commerce are as uni- 
versally noted as the stoppage of a general deal- 
er ! — Pray, Master Mariner, do not distrust our 
purposes. We do not come, sent by any authori- 
ty of the country, to pry into your past transac- 
tions, of which it is quite unnecessary for you to 
speak ; and far less to indulge in any unlawful 
thirst of gain, by urging a traffic that is forbid- 
den by the law. We wish solely to confer with 
the celebrated free-trader and rover, who must, 
if your account be true, command the vessel, for 
a few minutes, on an affair of common interest to 
the three. This officer of the queen is obliged, 
by his duty, to make certain demands of you, 
with which you will comply, or not, at your own 
good discretion ; and since her majesty’s cruiser 
is so far beyond reach of bullet, it cannot be 
expected you will do otherwise ; but, further than 
that, he has no present intention to proceed. — 
Parley and civilities ! Captain Ludlow, we must 
speak the man fair, or he will leave us to get over 
the inlet, and back to the Lust in Rust, as we may ; 
and that too, as empty-handed as we came. Re- 


66 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


member our stipulations, without observing which 
I shall withdraw from the adventure altogether.” 

Ludlow bit his lip, and continued silent. The 
seaman of the shawl, or Master Tiller, as he has 
been more than once called, again narrowly ex- 
amined the background, and caused his boat to 
approach so near the land, that it was possible to 
step into it by the stern. 

“ Enter,” he said to the captain of the Coquette, 
who needed no second invitation ; “ enter, for a 
valuable hostage is a safe pledge in a truce. 
The Skimmer is no enemy to good company ; and 
I have done justice to the queen’s servitor, by in- 
troducing him already, by name and character.” 

“ Fellow, the success of your deception may 
cause you to triumph for a time ; but remember 
that the Coquette — ” 

“ Is a wholesome boat, whose abilities I have 
taken, to the admeasurement of her moment-glass,” 
observed Tiller, very coolly taking the words out 
of the other’s mouth. “ But as there is business 
to be done with the Skimmer, we will speak more 
of this anon.” 

The mariner of the shawl, who had maintained 
his former audacious demeanor, now became 
grave ; and he spoke to his crew with authority, 
bidding them pull the boat to the side of the brig- 
antine. 

The exploits, the mysterious character, and 
the daring of the Water-Witch, and of him who 
sailed her, were, in that day, the frequent subjects 
of anger, admiration, and surprise. Those who 
found pleasure in the marvellous, listened to the 
wonders that were recounted of her speed and 
boldness with pleasure ; they who had been so 
often foiled in their attempts to arrest the hardy 
dealers in contraband, reddened at her name ; 
and all wondered at the success and intelligence 
with which her movements were controlled. It 
will, therefore, create no astonishment when we 
say that Ludlow and the patroon drew near to 
the light and graceful fabric with an interest that 
deepened at each stroke of the oars. So much 
of a profession which, in that age, was particu- 
larly marked and apart from the rest of mankind 
in habits and opinions, had been interwoven into 
the character of the former, that he could not see 
the just proportions, the graceful outlines of the 
hull, or the exquisite symmetry and neatness of 
the spars and rigging, without experiencing a 
feeling somewhat allied to that which undeniable 
superiority excites in the heart of even a rival. 
There was also a taste in the style of the merely 
ornamental parts of the delicate machine, which 
-caused as much surprise as her model and rig. 

Seamen, in all ages, and in every state of their 


art, have been ambitious of bestowing on their 
floating habitations a style of decoration which, 
while appropriate to their element, should be 
thought somewhat analogous to the architectural 
ornaments of the land. Piety, superstition, and 
national usages, affect these characteristic orna- 
ments, which are still seen, in different quarters 
of the world, to occasion broad distinctions be- 
tween the appearances of vessels. In one, the 
rudder-head is carved with the resemblance of 
some hideous monster; another shows goggling 
eyes and lolling tongues from its catheads; this 
has the patron saint, or the ever-kind Marie, em- 
bossed upon its mouldings or bows ; while that is 
covered with the allegorical emblems of country 
and duty. Few of these efforts of nautical art are 
successful ; though a better taste appears to be 
gradually redeeming even this branch of human 
industry from the rubbish of barbarism, and to 
be elevating it to a state which shall do no vio- 
lence to the more fastidious opinions of the age. 
But the vessel of which we write, though con- 
structed at so remote a period, would have done 
credit to the improvements of our own time. 

It has been said that the hull of this celebrated 
smuggler was low, dark, moulded with exquisite 
art, and- so justly balanced as to ride upon its 
element like a sea-fowl. For a little distance 
above the water, it showed a blue that vied with 
the color of the deep ocean, the use of copper be- 
ing then unknown ; while the more superior parts 
were of a jet black, delicately relieved by two 
lines of a straw-color, that were drawn with mathe-j 
matical accuracy, parallel to the plane of her up-j 
per works, and consequently converging slightly 
toward the sea, beneath her counter. Glossyl 
hammock-cloths concealed the persons of thosej 
who were on the deck, while the close bulwarks i 
gave the brigantine the air of a vessel equipped 
for war. Still the eye of Ludlow ran curiously 
along the whole extent of the two straw-colored 
lines, seeking in vain some evidence of the weight 
and force of her armament. If she had ports at 
all, they were so ingeniously concealed as to es- 
cape the keenest of his glances. The nature of 
the rig has been already described. Partaking 
of the double character of brig and schooner, the 
sails and spars of the forward-mast being of the 
former, while those of the after-mast were of the 
latter construction, seamen have given to this class 
of shipping the familiar name of hermaphrodites. 
But though there might be fancied by this term,* 
some want of the proportions that constitute seem- 
liness, it will be remembered that the departure 
was only from some former rule of art, and that 
no violence had been done to those universal andi 


A VISIT TO THE SMUGGLER. 


67 


permanent laws which constitute the charm of Na- 
ture. The models of glass which are seen repre- 
senting the machinery of a ship, are not more ex- 
act or just in their lines than were the cordage 
and spars of this brigantine. Not a rope varied 
from its true direction ; not a sail, but it resem- 
bled the neat folds of some prudent housewife; 
not a mast or a yard was there but it rose into 
the air, or stretched its arms, with the most fas- 
tidious attention to symmetry. All was airy, fan- 
ciful, and full of grace, seeming to lend to the fab- 
ric a character of unreal lightness and speed. As 
the boat drew near her side, a change of the air 
caused the buoyant bark to turn like a vane in 
its current ; and as all the long and pointed pro- 
portions of her head-gear came into view, Ludlow 
saw beneath the bowsprit an image that might 
be supposed to make, by means of allegory, some 
obvious allusions to the character of the vessel. 
A female form, fashioned with the carver’s best 
skill, stood on the projection of the cutwater. 
The figure rested lightly on the ball of one foot, 
while the other was suspended in an easy attitude, 
resembling the airy posture of the famous Mercu- 
rv of the Bolognese. The drapery was fluttering, 

: scanty, and of a light sea-green tint, as if it had 
i imbibed a hue from the element beneath. The 
1 face was of that dark bronzed color which human 
ingenuity has, from time immemorial, adopted as 
the best medium to portray a superhuman expres- 
■ sion. The locks were dishevelled, wild, and rich ; 
the eye full of such a meaning as might be fan- 
cied to glitter in the organs of a sorceress ; while 
a smile so strangely meaning and malign played 
about the mouth, that the young sailor started 
when it first met his view, as if a living thing had 
returned his look. 

“ Witchcraft and necromancy! ” grumbled the 
alderman, as this extraordinary image came sud- 
denly on his vision also. “ Here is a brazen-look- 
ing hussy ! and one who might rob the queen’s 
treasury itself, without remorse ! Your eyes are 
young, patroon ; what is that the minx holds so 
impudently above her head ? ” 

“ It seems an open book, with letters of red 
written on its pages. One need not be a con- 
jurer to divine it is no extract from the Bible.” 

“ Nor from the statute-books of Queen Anne. 

I warrant me ’tis a leger of profit gained in her 
many wanderings. Goggling and leers ! the bold 
air of the confident creature is enough to put an 
honest man out of countenance ! ” 

“Wilt read the motto of the witch?” de- 
manded he of the India shawl, whose eye had 
been studying the detail of the brigantine’s equip- i 
ment, rather than attending to the object which 


so much attracted the looks of his companions. 
“ The night air has tautened the cordage of that 
flying jib-boom, fellows, until it begins to lift its 
nose like a squeamish cockney, when he holds it 
over salt-water ! See to it, and bring the spar 
in line ; else we shall have a reproof from the 
sorceress, who little likes to have any of her 
limbs deranged. Here, gentlemen, the opinions 
of the lady may be read as clearly as woman’s 
mind can ever be fathomed.” 

While speaking to his crew, Tiller had changed 
the direction of the boat ; and it was soon lying, 
in obedience to a motion of his hand, directly be- 
neath the wild and significant-looking image just 
described. The letters in red were now distinct- 
ly visible; and when Alderman Van Beverout 
had adjusted his spectacles, each of the party 
read the following sentence : 

“ Albeit I never lend nor borrow, 

By taking, nor by giving of excess, 

Yet to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 

I’ll break a custom.” 

Merchant op Venice. 

“ The brazen ! ” exclaimed Myndert, when he 
had gone through this quotation from the immor- 
tal bard. “ Ripe or green, one could not wish to 
be the friend of so impudent a thing ; and then 
to impute such sentiments to any respectable 
commercial man, whether of Venice or Amster- 
dam ! Let us board the brigantine, friend mari- 
ner, and end the connection ere foul mouths begin 
to traduce our motives for the visit.” 

“ The over-driven ship ploughs the seas too 
deep for speed ; we shall get into port in better 
season without this haste. Wilt take another 
j look into the lady’s pages ? A woman’s mind 
is never known at the first answer.” 

The speaker raised the rattan he still carried 
and caused a page of painted metal to turn on 
hinges that were so artfully concealed as not to 
be visible. A new surface, with another extract, 
was seen. 

“ What is it, what is it, patroon ? ” demanded 
the burgher, who appeared greatly to distrust the 
discretion of the sorceress. “ Follies and rhymes ! 
but this is the way of the whole sex ; when Na- 
ture has denied them tongues, they invent other 
means of speech.” 

“ Porters , of the sea and land, 

Thus do go about, about; 

Thrice to thine, and thrice to thine, 

And thrice again to make up nine.” 

“ Rank nonsense ! ” continued the burgher. 
“It is well for those who can, to add thrice and 
thrice to their stores ; but look you, patroon — it 
is a thriving trade that can double the value of 


68 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


the adventure, and that with reasonable risks, 
and months of patient watching.” 

“We have other pages,” resumed Tiller, “but 
our affairs drag for want of attending to them. 
One may read much good matter in the . book of 
the sorceress, when there is leisure and opportu- 
nity. I often take occasion, in the calms, to look 
into her volume ; and it is rare to find the same 
moral twice told, as these brave seamen can 
swear.” 

The mariners at the oars confirmed this as- 
sertion by their grave and believing faces, while 
their superior caused the boat to quit the place, 
and the image of the Water-Witch was left float- 
ing in solitude above her proper element. 

The arrival of the cutter produced no sensa- 
tion among those who were found on the deck of 
the brigantine. The mariner of the shawl wel- 
comed his companions frankly and heartily ; and 
then he left them for a minute to make their ob- 
servations, while he discharged some duty in the 
interior of the vessel. The moments were not 
lost, as powerful curiosity induced all the visitors 
to gaze about them, in the manner in which men 
study the appearance of any celebrated object, 
that has long been known only by reputation. It 
was quite apparent that even Alderman Yan Be- 
verout had penetrated farther into the mysteries 
of the beautiful brigantine, than he had ever be- 
fore been. But it was Ludlow who gathered most 
from this brief opportunity, and whose under- 
standing glances so rapidly and eagerly ran over 
all that a seaman could wish to examine. 

An admirable neatness reigned in every part. 
The planks of the deck resembled the work of 
the cabinet-maker, rather than the coarser labor 
which is generally seen in such a place; and 
the same excellence of material, and exactness 
in the finish, were visible in the ceilings of 
the light bulwarks, the railings, and all the other 
objects which necessarily came conspicuously 
into view, in the construction of such a fabric. 
Brass was tastefully rather than lavishly used, on 
many of those parts where metal was necessary ; 
and the paint of the interior was everywhere a light 
and delicate straw-color. Armament there was 
none, or at least none visible ; nor did the fifteen 
or twenty grave-looking seamen, who were silent- 
ly lounging with folded arms, about the vessel, 
appear to be those who would find pleasure in 
scenes of violence. They were, without an ex- 
ception, men who had reached the middle age, 
of weather-worn and thoughtful countenances, 
many of them even showing heads that had be- 
gun to be grizzled more by time than even by ex- 
posure. Thus much Ludlow had been enabled to 


ascertain, ere they were rejoined by Tiller. When 
the latter again came on deck, he showed, how- 
ever, no desire to conceal any of the perfections 
of his habitation. 

“ The wilful sorceress is no niggard in accom- 
modating her followers,” said the mariner, observ- 
ing the manner in which the queen’s officer was 
employed. “ Here, you see, the skimmer keeps 
room enough for an admiral, in his cabins ; and 
the fellows are berthed aft, far beyond the fore- 
mast. Wilt step to the hatch, and look be- 
low ? ” 

The captain and his companions did as de- 
sired, and, to the amazement of the former, he 
perceived that, with the exception of a sort of 
room fitted with large and water-tight lockers, 
which were placed in full view, all the rest of the 
brigantine was occupied by the accommodations 
of her officers and crew. 

“ The world gives us the reputation of free- 
traders,” continued Tiller, smiling maliciously ; 
“ but if the Admiralty Court were here, big wigs 
and high staffs, judge and jury, it would be at a 
loss to bring us to conviction. There is iron to 
keep the lady on her feet, and water, with some 
garnish of Jamaica, and the wines of old Spain 
and the islands, to cheer the hearts and cool the 
mouths of my fellows, beneath that deck; and 
more than that, there is not. We have stores 
for the table and the breeze, beyond yon bulk- 
head ; and here are lockers beneath you, that are 
— empty ! See, one is open ; it is neat as any 
drawer in a lady’s bureau. This is no place for 
your Dutchman’s strong waters, or the coarse 
skins of your tabacconist. Odd’s my life ! He 
who would go on the scent of the Water-Witch’s 
lading, must follow your beauty in her satins, or 
your parson in his band and gown. There would 
be much lamentation in the Church, and many a 
heavy-hearted bishop, were it known that the 
good craft had come to harm ! ” 

“ There must be an end to this audacious tri- 
fling with the law,” said Ludlow ; “ and the time 
may be nearer than you suppose.” 

“ I look at the pages of the lady’s book, in 
the pride of each morning; for we have it aboard 
here, that when she intends to serve us foul, she 
will at least be honest enough to give a warning. 
The mottoes often change, but her words are 
ever true. ’Tis hard to overtake the driving 
mist, Captain Ludlow, and he must hold good way 
with the wind itself, who wishes to stay long in 
our company.” 

“Many a boastful sailor has been caught. 
The breeze that is good for the light of draught, 
and the breeze that is good for the deep keel, are 


THE INTERIOR OF THE BRIGANTINE. 


69 


different. You may live to learn what a stout 
spar, a wide arm, and a steady hull, can do.” 

“ The lady of the wild eye and wicked smile 
protect me ! I have seen the witch buried fathoms 
deep in brine, and the glittering water falling 
from her tresses like golden stars; but never 
have I read an untruth in her pages. There is 
good intelligence between her and some on board ; 
and, trust me, she knows the paths of the ocean 
too well ever to steer a wrong course. But we 
prate like gossiping river-men. — Wilt see the 
Skimmer of the Seas ? ” 

“ Such is the object of our visit,” returned 
Ludlow, whose heart beat violently at the name 
of the redoubtable rover. “ If you are not he, 
bring us where he is.” 

“ Speak lower ; if the lady under the bowsprit 
hear such treason against her favorite, I’ll not 
answer for her good-will. If I am not he ! ” add- 
ed the hero of the India shawl, laughing freely. 
“Well, an ocean is bigger than a sea, and a bay 
is not a gulf. You shall have an opportunity of 
judging between us, noble captain, and then I 
leave opinions to each man’s wisdom. Follow.” 

He quitted the hatchway, and led his com- 
panions toward the accommodations in the stern 
of the vessel. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ God save you, sir ! 

And you, sir ; you are welcome. 

Travel you, sir, or are you at the furthest ? ” 

Taming of the Sheew, 

If the exterior of the brigantine was so grace- 
ful in form’ and so singular in arrangement, the 
interior was still more worthy of observation. 
There were two small cabins beneath the main- 
deck, one on each side of, and immediately ad- 
joining, the limited space that was destined to 
receive her light but valuable cargoes. It was 
into one of these that Tiller had descended like 
a man who freely entered into his own apart- 
ment ; but partly above, and nearer to the stern, 
was a suite of little rooms that were fitted and 
furnished in a style altogether different. The 
equipments were those of a yacht, rather than those 
which might be supposed suited to the pleasures 
of even the most successful dealer in contraband. 

The principal deck had been sunk several 
feet, commencing at the aftermost bulkhead of 
the cabins of the subordinate officers, in a man- 
ner to give the necessary height, without interfer- 
ing with the line of the brigantine’s shear. The 
arrangement was consequently not to be seen by 


an observer who was not admitted into the ves- 
sel itself. A descent of a step or two, however, 
brought the visitors to the level of the cabin-floor, 
and into an anteroom that was evidently fitted for 
the convenience of the domestics. A small silver 
hand-bell lay on a table, and Tiller rang it lightly, 
like one whose ordinary manner was restrained 
by respect. It was answered by the appearance 
of a boy, whose years could not exceed ten, and 
whose attire was so whimsical as to merit descrip- 
tion. 

The material of the dress of this young servi- 
tor of Neptune, was a light rose-colored silk, cut 
in a fashion to resemble the habits formerly worn 
by pages of the great. His body was belted by a 
band of gold, a collar of fine thread lace floated 
on his neck and shoulders, and even his feet were 
clad in a sort of buskins, that were ornamented 
with fringes of real lace and tassels of bullion. 
The form and features of the child were delicate, 
and his air as unlike as possible to the coarse 
and brusque manner of a vulgar ship-boy. 

“Waste and prodigality!” muttered the al- 
derman, when this extraordinary little usher pre- 
sented himself, in answer to the summons of Tiller. 
“ This is the very wantonness of cheap goods and 
an unfettered commerce! There is enough of 
Mechlin, patroon, on the shoulders of that urchin, 
to deck the stomacher of the queen. ’Fore George, 
goods were cheap in the market, when the young 
scoundrel had his livery ! ” 

The surprise was not confined, however, to 
the observant and frugal burgher. Ludlow and 
Van Staats of Kinderho ok manifested equal amaze- 
ment, though their wonder was exhibited in a less 
characteristic manner. The former turned short 
to demand the meaning of this masquerade, when 
he perceived that the hero of the India shawl had 
disappeared. They were then alone with the fan- 
tastic page, and it became necessary to trust to 
his intelligence for directions how to proceed. 

“Who art thou, child? — and who has sent 
thee hither ? ” demanded Ludlow. The boy raised 
a cap of the same rose-colored silk, and pointed 
to an image of a female, with a swarthy face 
and a malign smile, painted, with exceeding art, 
on its front. 

“ I serve the sea-green lady, with the others 
of the brigantine.” 

“ And who is this lady of the color of shallow 
water, and whence come you, in particular ? ” 

“ This is her likeness — if you would speak 
with her, she stands on the cutwater, and rarely 
refuses an answer.” 

“ ’Tis odd that a form of wood should have 
the gift of speech ! ” 


70 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


“ Dost think her, then, of wood ? ” returned 
the child, looking timidly, and yet curiously, up 
into the face of Ludlow. “ Others have said the 
same ; but those who know best, deny it. She 
does not answer with a tongue, but the book has 
always something to say.” 

“ Here is a grievous deception practised on 
the superstition of this boy ; I have read the 
book, and can make but little of its meaning:.” 

“ Then read again. 5 Tis by many reaches 
that the leeward vessel gains upon the wind. 
My master has bid me bring you in — ” 

“ Hold — thou hast both master and mistress ? 
You have told us the latter, but we would know 
something of the former. Who is thy master ? ” 

The boy smiled and looked aside, as if he hes- 
itated to answer. 

“ Nay, refuse not to reply. I come with the 
authority of the queen.” 

tl He tells us that the sea-green lady is our 
queen, and that we have no other.” 

“Rashness and rebellion!” muttered Myn- 
dert ; “ but this foolhardiness will one day bring 
as pretty a brigantine as ever sailed in the nar- 
row seas to condemnation ; and then will there 
be rumors abroad, and characters cracked, till 
every lover of gossip in the Americas shall be 
tired of defamation.” 

“ It is a bold subject that dares say this ! ” re- 
joined Ludlow, who heeded not the by-play of 
the alderman ; “ your master has a name ? ” 

“ We never hear it. When Neptune boards 
us, under the tropics, he always hails the Skim- 
mer of the Seas, and then they answer. The old 
god knows us well, for we pass his latitude often- 
er than other ships, they say.” 

“You are then a cruiser of some service in 
the brigantine— no doubt you have trod many 
distant shores, belonging to so swift a craft.” 

“ I ! — I never was on the land ! ” returned the 
boy, thoughtfully. “ It must be droll to be there ; 
they say one can hardly walk, it is so steady ! I 
put a question to the sea-green lady before we 
came to the narrow inlet, to know when I was to 
go ashore.” 

“ And she answered ? ” 

It was some time first. Two watches were 
past before a word was to be seen ; at last I got 
the lines. I believe she mocked me, though I 
have never dared show it to my master, that he 
might say.” 

“ Hast the words here ? — perhaps we mi ght 
assist thee, as there are some among us who know 
most of the sea-paths.” 

The boy looked timidly and suspiciously 
around ; then, thrusting a hand hurriedly into a 


pocket, he drew forth two bits of paper, each of 
which contained a scrawl, and both of which had 
evidently been much thumbed and studied. 

“ Here,” he said, in a voice that was suppressed 
nearly to a whisper. “This was on the first 
page. I was so frightened, lest the lady should 
be angry, that I did not look again till the next 
watch; and then,” turning the leaf, “I found 
this.” 

Ludlow took the bit of paper first offered, 
and read, written in a child’s hand, the following 
extract : 

“I pray thee 

Item ember, I have done thee worthy service ; 

Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, served 

Without or grudge or grumblings." 

“ I thought that ’twas in mockery,” continued 
the boy, when he saw by the eye of the young cap- 
tain that he had read the quotation ; “ for ’twas I 
very like, though more prettily worded, than that 
which I had said myself! ” 

“ And what was the second answer ? ” 

“This was found in the first morning-watch,” 
the child returned, reading the second extract 
himself : 

“ Tbou tliink’st 

It much to tread the ooze of the salt deep, 

And run upon tbe sharp wind of the north ! ” 

“I never dared to ask again. But what mat- 
ters that ? They say the ground is rough and 
difficult to walk on ; that earthquakes shake it, 
and make holes to swallow cities ; that men slay 
each other on the highways for money, and that 
the houses I see on the hills must always remain 
in the same spot. It must be very melancholy to 
live always in the same spot ; but then it must be 
odd never to feel a motion ! ” 

“ Except the occasional rocking of an earth- 
quake. Thou art better afloat, child— but thy 
master, this Skimmer of the Seas — ” 

“ —Hist ! ” whispered the boy, raising a fin- 
ger for silence. “ He has come up into the great 
cabin. In a moment, we shall have his signal to 
enter.” 

A few light touches on the strings of a guitar 
followed, and then a symphony was rapidly and 
beautifully executed, by one in the adjoining 
apartment. 

“ Alida, herself, is not more nimble-fingered,” 
whispered the alderman ; “ and I never heard the 
girl touch the Dutch lute, that cost a hundred 
Holland guilders, with a livelier movement ! ” 

Ludlow signed for silence. A fine, manly 1 
voice, of great richness and depth, was soon 
heard, singing to an accompaniment on the same 
instrument. The air was grave, and altogether ! 
unusual for the social character of one who dwelt 


THE MAIN CABIN. 


71 


upon the ocean, being chiefly in recitative. The 
words, as near as might be distinguished, ran as 
follows : 

“ My brigantine ! 

Just in thy mould, and beauteous in thy form, 

Gentle in roll, and buoyant on the surge, 
light as the sea-fowl, rocking in the storm, 

In breeze and gale, thy onward course we urge ; 

My water-queen 1 

“ Lady of mine ! 

More light and swift than thou, none thread the sea, 
"With surer keel, or steadier on its path : 

We brave each waste of ocean-mystery, 

And laugh to hear the howling tempest’s wrath ! 

For we are thine ! 

“ My brigantine 1 

Trust to the mystic power that points thy way, 

Trust to the eye that pierces from afar, 

Trust the red meteors that around thee play, 

And fearless trust the sea-green lady’s star; 

Thou bark divine 1 ” 

“He often sings thus,” whispered the boy, 
when the song was ended ; “ they say, the sea- 
green lady loves music that tells of the ocean, 
and of her power. — Hark ! he has bid me enter.” 

“He did but touch the strings of the guitar 
again, boy.” 

“’Tis his signal, when the weather is fair. 
When we have the whistlings of the wind and 
the roar of the water, then he has a louder call.” 

Ludlow would have gladly listened longer; 
but the boy opened a door, and, pointing the way 
to those he conducted, he silently vanished him- 
self, behind a curtain. 

The visitors, more particularly the young com- 
mander of the Coquette, found new subjects of 
admiration and wonder, on entering the main 
cabin of the brigantine. The apartment, consid- 
ering the size of the vessel, was spacious and 
high. It received light from a couple of windows 
in the stern, and it was evident that two smaller 
rooms, one on each of the quarters, shared with 
it in this advantage. The space between these 
state-rooms, as they are called in nautical language, 
necessarily formed a deep alcove, which might be 
separated from the outer portion of the cabin by 
a curtain of crimson damask, that now hung in 
festoons from a beam fashioned into a gilded cor- 
nice. A luxuriously -looking pile of cushions, 
covered with red morocco, lay along the transom, 
in the manner of an Eastern divan ; and against 
the bulkhead of each state-room stood an agrip- 
pina of mahogany, that was lined with the same 
material. Neat and tasteful cases for books were 
suspended here and there ; and the guitar which 
had so lately been used, lay on a small table of 
some precious wood, that occupied the centre of 


the alcove. There were also other implements, 
like those which occupy the leisure of a cultivated 
but perhaps an effeminate rather than a vigorous 
mind, scattered around, some evidently long neg- 
lected, and others appearing to have been more 
recently in favor. 

The outer portion of the cabin was furnished 
in a similar style, though it contained many more 
of the articles that ordinarily belong to domestic 
economy. It had its agrippina, its piles of cush- 
ions, its chairs of beautiful wood, its cases for 
books, and its neglected instruments, intermixed 
with fixtures of more solid and permanent appear- 
ance, which were arranged to meet the violent 
motion that was often unavoidable in so small a 
bark. There was a slight hanging of crimson 
damask around the whole apartment ; and, here 
and there, a small mirror was let into the bulk- 
heads and ceilings. All the other parts were of 
a rich mahogany, relieved by panels of rosewood, 
that gave an appearance of exquisite finish to the 
cabin. The floor was covered with a mat of the 
finest texture, and of a fragrance that announced 
both its freshness, and the fact that the grass had 
been the growth of a warm and luxuriant climate. 
The place, as was indeed the whole vessel, so far 
as the keen eye of Ludlow could detect, was en- 
tirely destitute of arms, not even a pistol or a 
sword being suspended in those places where weap- 
ons of that description are usually seen in all ves- 
sels employed either in war or in a trade that 
might oblige those who sail them to deal in vio- 
lence. 

In the centre of the alcove stood the youthful- 
looking and extraordinary person who, in so un- 
ceremonious a manner, had visited la Cour des 
Fees the preceding night. His dress was much 
the same, in fashion and material, as when last 
seen ; still, it had beeji changed ; for on the 
breast of the silken frock was painted an image 
of the sea-green lady, done with exquisite skill, 
and in a manner to preserve the whole of the 
wild and unearthly character of the expression. 
The wearer of this singular ornament leaned light- 
ly against the little table, and, as he bowed with 
entire self-possession to his guests, his face was 
lighted with a smile that seemed to betray melan- 
choly no less than courtesy. At the same time 
he raised his cap, and stood in the rich jet-black 
locks with which Nature had so exuberantly 
shaded his forehead. 

The manner of the visitors was less easy. 
The deep anxiety with which both Ludlow and 
the patroon had undertaken to board the notori- 
ous smuggler, had given place to an amazement 
and a curiosity that caused them nearly to forget 


72 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


their errand ; while Alderman Yan Beverout ap- 
peared shy and suspicions, manifestly thinking 
less of his niece than of the consequences of so 
remarkable an interview. They all returned the 
salutation of their host, though each waited for 
him to speak. 

“ They tell me I have the pleasure to receive 
a commander of Queen Anne’s service, the wealthy 
and honorable Patroon of Kinderhook, and a 
most worthy and respectable member of the city 
corporation, known as Alderman Yan Beverout,” 
commenced the individual who did the honors of 
the vessel on this occasion. “ It is not often that 
my poor brigantine is thus favored, and, in the 
name of my mistress, I would express our thanks.” 

As he ceased speaking, he bowed again with 
ceremonious gravity, as if all were equally stran- 
gers to him ; though the young man saw plainly 
that a smothered smile played about a mouth that 
even they could not refuse the praise of being of 
rare and extraordinary attraction. 

“ As we have but one mistress,” said Ludlow, 
“it is our common duty to wish to do her pleas- 
ure.” 

“ I understand you, sir. It is scarce neces- 
sary to say, however, that the wife of George of 
Denmark has little authority here. Forbear, I 
pray you,” he added quickly, observing that Lud- 
low was about to answer. “ These interviews 
with the servants of that lady are not unfrequent ; 
and as I know other matters have sent you hither, 
we will imagine all said that a vigilant officer and 
a most loyal subject could utter to an outlaw and 
a trifler with the regulations of the customs. 
That controversy must be settled between us under 
our canvas, and by virtue of our speed or other 
professional qualities, at proper time and in a 
proper place. We will now touch on different 
matters.” 

“I think the gentleman is right, patroon. 
When matters are ripe for the exchequer there is 
no use in worrying the lungs with summing up 
the testimony, like a fee’d advocate. Twelve dis- 
creet men, who have bowels of compassion for 
the vicissitudes of trade, and who know how hard 
it is to earn, and how easy it is to spend, will deal 
with the subject better than all the idle talkers 
in the provinces.” 

“ When confronted to the twelve disinterested 
Daniels, I shall be fain to submit to their judg- 
ment,” rejoined the other, still suffering the wil- 
ful smile to linger around his lips. “You, sir, I 
think, are called Mr. Myndert Yan Beverout. To 
what fall in peltry, or what rise in markets, do 
I owe the honor of this visit ? ” 

“ It is said that some from this vessel were so 


bold as to land on my grounds, during the past 
night, without the knowledge and consent of their 
owner — you will observe the purport of our dis- 
course, Mr. Yan Staats, for it may yet come be- 
for the authorities— as I said, sir, without their 
owner’s knowledge, and that there were dealings 
in articles that are contraband of law, unless they 
enter the provinces purified and embellished by 
the air of the queen’s European dominions— God 
bless her majesty ! ” 

“ Amen. — That which quitteth the Water- 
Witch commonly comes purified by the air of 
many different regions. We are no laggards in 
movement, here ; and the winds of Europe scarce- 
ly cease to blow upon our sails, before we scent 
the gales of America. But this is rather excheq- 
uer matter, to be discussed before the twelve 
merciful burghers, than entertainment for such 
a visit.” 

“ I open with the facts, that there may be no 
errors. But in addition to so foul an imputation 
on the credit of a merchant, there has a great ca- 
lamity befallen me and my household, during the 
past night. The daughter and heiress of old 
Etienne de Barberie has left her abode, and we 
have reason to think that she has been deluded 
so far as to come hither. Faith and correspond- 
ence! Master Seadrift; but I think this is ex- 
ceeding the compass of even a trader in contra- 
band ! I can make allowances for some errors in 
an account ; but women can be exported and im- 
ported without duty, and when and where one 
pleases, and therefore the less necessity for run- 
ning them out of their old uncle’s habitation in 
so secret a manner.” 

“ An undeniable position, and a feeling con- 
clusion ! I admit the demand to be made in all 
form, and I suppose these two gentlemen are to 
be considered as witnesses of its legality.” 

“We have come to aid a wronged and dis- 
tressed relative and guardian, in searching for his 
misguided ward,” Ludlow answered. 

The free-trader turned his eyes on the pa- 
troon, who signified his assent by a silent bow. 

“ ’Tis well, gentlemen ; I also admit the tes- 
timony. But, though in common believed so 
worthy a subject for justice, I have hitherto had 
but little direct communication with the blind 
deity. Do the authorities usually give credit to 
these charges without some evidence of their 
truth ? ” 

“ Is it denied ? ” . 

“ You are still in possession of your senses, 
Captain Ludlow, and may freely use them. But 
this is an artifice to divert pursuit. There are 
other vessels besides the brigantine, and a capri- 


MYSTERY. 


73 


cious fair may have sought a protector even un- 
der a pennant of Queen Anne ! ” 

“ This is a truth that has been but too obvi- 
ous to my mind, Mr. Yan Beverout,” observed the 
sententious patroon. “ It would have been well 
to have ascertained whether she we seek has not 
taken' some less exceptionable course than this, 
before we hastily believe that your niece would so 
easily become the wife of a stranger.” 

“Has Mr. Yan Staats any hidden meaning 
in his words, that he speaks ambiguously ? ” 
demanded Ludlow. 

“A man conscious of his good intentions, 
has little occasion to speak equivocally. I be- 
lieve, with this reputed smuggler, that la belle 
Barberie would be more likely to fly with one she 
has long known, and whom I fear she has but too 
well esteemed, than with an utter stranger, over 
whose life there is cast a shade of so dark mys- 
tery.” 

“ If the impression that the lady could yield 
her esteem with too little discretion be any ex- 
cuse for suspicions, then may I advise a search 
in the manor of Kinderhook ! ” 

“ Consent and joy ! The girl need not have 
stolen to church to become the bride of Oloff Yan 
Staats ! ” interrupted the alderman. “ She should 
have had my benediction on the match, and a fat 
gift to give it unction.” 

“ These suspicions are but natural, between 
men bent on the same object,” resumed the free- 
trader. “ The officer of the queen thinks a glance 
of the eye, from a wilful fair, means a'dmiration 
of broad lands and rich meadows ; and the lord 
of the manor distrusts the romance of warlike 
service, and the power of an imagination which 
roams the sea. Still may I ask, what is there 
here, to tempt a proud and courted beauty to for- 
get station, sex, and friends ? ” 

“ Caprice and vanity ! There is no answering 
for a woman’s mind ! Here we bring articles, 
at great risk and heavy charges, from the farther 
Indies to please their fancies, and they change 
their modes easier than the beaver casts his coat. 
Their conceits sadly unsettle trade, and I know 
not why they may not cause a wilful girl to do 
any other act of folly.” 

“This reasoning seems conclusive with the 
uncle. Do the suitors assent to its justice V ” 

The Patroon of Kinderhook had stood gazing, 
long and earnestly, at the countenance of the ex- 
traordinary being who asked this question. A 
movement, which bespoke equally his conviction 
and his regret, escaped him, but he continued si- 
lent. Not so Ludlow. Of a more ardent tempera- 
ment, though equally sensible of the temptation 


which had caused Alida to err, and as keenly 
alive to all the consequences to herself, as well as 
to others, there was something of professional 
rivalry and of an official right to investigate, 
which still mingled with his feelings. He had 
found time to examine more closely the articles 
that the cabin contained, and when their singular 
host put his question, he pointed, with an ironical 
but mournful smile, to a footstool richly wrought 
in flowers of tints and shades so just as to seem 
natural, 

“ This is no work of a sail-maker’s needle ! ” 
said the captain of the Coquette. “ Other beau- 
ties have been induced to pass an idle hour in 
your gay residence, hardy mariner ; but, sooner 
or later, judgment will overtake the light-heeled 
craft.” 

“ On the wind, or off, she must some day lag, 
as we seamen have it ! Captain Ludlow, I excuse 
some harshness of construction, that your lan- 
guage might imply ; for it becomes a commissioned 
servant of the crown to use freedom with one 
who, like the lawless companion of the princely 
Hal, is but too apt to propose to ‘ rob me the 
king’s exchequer.’ But, sir, this brigantine and 
her character are little known to you. We have 
no need of truant damsels, to let us into the mys- 
tery of the sex’s taste ; for a female spirit guides 
all our humors, and imparts something of her 
delicacy to all our acts, even though it be the 
fashion among burghers to call them lawless. 
See,” throwing a curtain carelessly aside, and ex- 
hibiting, behind it, various articles of womanly 
employment, “ here are the offspring of both pen- 
cil and needle. The sorceress,” touching the im- 
age on his breast, “will not be entertained, 
without some deference to her sex.” 

“This affair 'must be arranged, I see, by 
a compromise,” observed the alderman. — “ By 
your leave, gentlemen, I will make proposals in 
private to this bold trader, who perhaps will listen 
to the offers I have to propose.” 

“Ah ! This savors more of the spirit of trade 
than of that of the sea-goddess I serve,” cried the 
other, causing his fingers to run lightly over the 
strings of the guitar. “ Compromise and offers 
are sounds that become a burgher’s lips. — My 
tricksy spirit, commit these gentlemen to the care 
of bold Thomas Tiller, while I confer with the 
merchant. The character of Mr. Yan Beverout, 
Captain Ludlow, will protect us both from the 
suspicion of any designs on the revenue ! ” 

Laughing at his own allusion, the free-trader 
signed to the.boy, who had appeared from behind 
a curtain, to show the disappointed suitors of la 
belle Barberie into another part of the vessel. 


74 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


“Foul tongues and calumnies! Master Sea- 
drift, this unlawful manner of playing round busi- 
ness, after accounts are settled and receipts passed, 
may lead to other loss besides that of character. 
The commander of the Coquette is not more than 
half satisfied of my ignorance of your misdoings 
in behalf of the customs, already ; and these jokes 
are like so many punches into a smouldering fire 
on a dark night. They only give light, and cause 
people to seethe clearer — though, Heaven knows, 
no man has less reason to dread an inquiry into 
his affairs than myself ! I challenge the best ac- 
countant in the colonies to detect a false footing, 
or a doubtful entry, in any book I have, from the 
memorandum to the ledger.” 

“ The Proverbs are not more sententious, nor 
the Psalms half as poetical, as your library. But 
why this secret parley ? — The brigantine has a 
swept hold.” 

“Swept? Brooms and Yan Tromp ! Thou 
hast swept the pavilion of my niece of its mis- 
tress, no less than my purse of its johannes. This 
is carrying a little innocent barter into a most 
forbidden commerce, and I hope the joke is to 
end before the affair gets to be sweetening to the 
tea of the province gossips. Such a tale would 
affect the autumn importation of sugars ! ” 

“ This is more vivid than clear. You have 
my laces and velvets ; my brocades and satins are 
already in the hands of the Manhattan dames ; 
and your furs and johannes are safe where no 
boarding-officer from the Coquette — ” 

“ Well, there is no need of speaking-trumpets 
to tell a man what he knows already, to his cost ! 

I should expect no less than bankruptcy from 
two or three such bargains, and you wish to add 
los3 of character to loss of gold. Bulkheads 
have ears in a ship, as well as walls in houses. I 
wish no more said of the trifling traffic that 
has been between us. If I lose a thousand 
florins by the operation, I shall know how to be 
resigned. Patience and afflictions ! Have I not 
buried as full-fed and promising a gelding this 
morning, as ever paced a pavement, and has any 
man heard a complaint from my lips ? I know 
how to meet losses, I hope ; and so no more of an 
unlucky purchase.” 

“ Truly, if it be not for trade, there is little in 
common between the mariners of the brigantine 
and Alderman Yan Beverout.” 

“ The greater the necessity thou shouldst end 
this silly joke, and restore his niece. I am not sure 
the affair can be at all settled with either of these 
hot-headed young men, though I -should even 
offer to throw in a few thousands more, by way 
of make-weight. When female reputation gets 


a bad name in the market, ’tis harder to dispose of 
than falling stock ; and your young lords of manors 
and commanders of cruisers have stomachs like 
usurers ; no percentage will satisfy them ; it 
must be all or nothing ! There was no such fool- 
ery in the days of thy worthy father ! The hon- 
est trafficker brought his cutter into port with as 
innocent a look as a mill-boat. We had our dis- 
courses on the qualities of his wares, when here 
was his price and there was my gold. Odd or 
even ! It was all a chance which had the best 
of the bargain. I was a thriving man in those 
days, Master Seadrift ; but thy spirit seems the 
spirit of extortion itself ! ” 

There was momentarily contempt on the lip 
of the handsome smuggler, but it disappeared in 
an expression of evident and painful sadness. 

“ Thou hast softened my heart, ere now, most 
liberal burgher,” he answered, “ by these allusions 
to my parent ; and many is the doubloon that I 
have paid for his eulogies.” 

“I speak as disinterestedly as a parson 
preaches! What is a trifle of gold between 
friends ? Yes, there was happiness in trade dur- 
ing the time of thy predecessor. He had a 
comely and a deceptive craft, that might be lik- 
ened to an untrimmed racer. There was motion 
in it, at need, and yet it had the air of a leisurely 
Amsterdammer. I have known an exchequer 
cruiser hail him, and ask the news of the famous 
free-trader, with as little suspicion as he would 
have in speaking the lord high-admiral. There 
were no fooleries in his time ; no unseemly hus- 
sies stuck under his bowsprit, to put an honest man 
out of countenance ; no high-fliers in sail and 
paint ; no singing and luting — but all was rational 
and gainful barter. Then, he was a man to 
ballast his boat with something valuable. I have 
known him throw in fifty ankers of gin, with- 
out a farthing for freight, when a bargain has 
been struck for the finer articles — ay, and finish 
by landing them in England, for a small premium, 
when the gift was made ! ” 

“ He deserves thy praise, grateful alderman ; 
but to what conclusion does this opening tend ? ” 

“Well, if more gold must pass between us,” 
continued the reluctant Myndert, “ we shall not 
waste time in counting it ; though, Heaven knows, 
Master Seadrift, thou bast already drained me dry. 
Losses have fallen heavy on me, of late. There 
is a gelding, dead, that fifty Holland ducats will 
not replace on the boom-key of Rotterdam, to 
say nothing of freight and charges, which come 
particularly heavy — ” 

“ Speak to thy offer ! ” interrupted the other, 
who evidently wished to shorten the interview. 


THE SECRET CONFERENCE. 


“ Restore the girl, and take five-and-twenty 
thin pieces.” 

“ Half-price for a Flemish gelding ! La belle 
would blush, with honest pride, did she know her 
value in the market ! ” 

“ Extortion and bowels of compassion ! Let 
it be a hundred, and no further words between 
us.” 

“Harkee, Mr. Van Beverout; that I some- 
times trespass on the queen’s earnings is not to 
be denied, and least of all to you; for I like 
neither this manner of ruling a nation by deputy, 
nor the principle which says that one bit of 
earth is to make laws for another. ’Tis not my 
humor, sir, to wear an English cotton when my 
taste is for the Florentine ; nor to swallow beer, 
when I more relish the delicate wines of Gascony. 
Beyond this, thou knowest I do not trifle, even 
with fancied rights ; and, had I fifty of thy nieces, 
sacks of ducats should not purchase one ! ” 

The alderman started in a manner that might 
have induced a spectator to believe he was lis- 
tening to an incomprehensible proposition. Still 
his companion spoke with a warmth that gave 
him no small reason to believe he uttered no more 
than he felt, and, inexplicable as it might prove, 
that he valued treasure less than feeling. 

“ Obstinacy and extravagance ! ” muttered 
Myndert ; % “ what use can a troublesome girl be 
to one of thy habits ? If thou hast deluded — ” 

“ I have deluded none. The brigantine is 
not an Algerine, to ask and take ransom.” 

“ Then let it submit to what I believe it is yet 
a stranger. If thou hast not enticed my niece 
away, by, Heaven knows, a most vain delusion ! 
let the ve.ssel be searched. This will make the 
minds of the young men tranquil, and keep the 
treaty open between us, and the value of the 
article fixed in the market.” 

“Freely — but mark! If certain bales con- 
taining worthless furs of martens and beavers, 
with other articles of thy colony trade, should 
discover the character of my correspondents, I 
stand exonerated of all breach of faith.” 

“ There is prudence in that. Yes, there ipust 
be no impertinent eyes peeping into bales and 
packages. Well, I see, Master Seadrift, the im- 
possibility of immediately coming to an under- 
standing ; and therefore I will quit thy vessel, 
for truly a merchant of reputation should have 
no unnecessary connection with one so suspected.” 

The free-trader smiled, partly in scorn, and 
yet much in sadness, and passed his fingers over 
the strings of the guitar. 

“Show this worthy burgher to his friends, 
Zephyr,” he said ; and, bowing to the alderman, 


75 

he dismissed him in a manner that betrayed a 
singular compound of feeling. One quick to dis- 
cover the traces of human passion, might have 
fancied that regret, and even sorrow, was blended 
with the natural or assumed recklessness of the 
smuggler’s air and language. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“ This will prove a brave kingdom to me ; 

Where I shall have my music for nothing.” 

Tempest. 

During the time passed in the secret confer- 
ence of the cabin, Ludlow and the patroon were 
held in discourse on the quarter-deck by the hero 
of the India shawl. The dialogue was profes- 
sional, as Van Staats maintained his ancient rep- 
utation for taciturnity. The appearance of 
Myndert, thoughtful, disappointed, and most evi- 
dently perplexed, caused the ideas of all to take 
a new direction. It is probable that the burgher 
believed he had not yet bid enough to tempt the 
free-trader to restore his niece ; for by his air it 
was apparent his mind was far from being satis- 
fied that she was not in the vessel. Still, when 
questioned by his companions concerning the re- 
sult of his interview with the free-trader, for rea- 
sons best understood by himself, he was fain to 
answer evasively. 

“Of one thing rest satisfied,” he said ; “the 
misconception in this affair will yet be explained, 
and Alida Barberie return unfettered, and with 
a character as free from blemish as the credit of 
the Van Stoppers of Holland. The fanciful-looking 
person in the cabin denies that my niece is here, 
and I am inclined to think the balance of truth 
is on his side. I confess, if one could just look 
into the cabins, without the trouble of rummaging 
lockers and cargo, the statement would give more 
satisfaction ; but — hem — gentlemen, we must take 
the assertion on credit, for want of more suffi- 
cient security.” 

Ludlow looked at the cloud above the mouth 
of the Raritan, and his lip curled in a smile. 

“ Let the wind hold here, at east,” he said, 
“ and we shall act our pleasure with both lockers 
and cabins.” 

“Hist! the worthy Master Tiller may over- 
hear this threat — after all, I do not know wheth- 
er prudence does not tell us to let the brigantine 
depart.” 

“ Mr. Alderman Van Beverout,” rejoined the 
captain, whose cheek had reddened to a glow, 
“ my duty must not be gauged by your affection for 


76 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


your niece. Though content that Alida Barberie 
should quit the country, like an article of vulgar 
commerce, the commander of this vessel must get 
a passport of her majesty’s cruiser ere she again 
enter the high-sea.” 

“ Wilt say as much to the sea-green lady ? ” 
asked the mariner of the shawl, suddenly appear- 
ing at his elbow. 

The question was so unexpected and so strange 
that it caused an involuntary start ; but, recover- 
ing his recollection on the instant, the young sail- 
or haughtily replied : 

“ Or to any other monster thou canst conjure.” 

“ We will take you at the word. There is no 
more certain method of knowing the past or the 
future, the quarter of the heavens from which the 
winds are to come, or the season of the hurri- 
canes, than by putting a question to our mistress. 
She who knows so much of hidden matters may 
tell us what you wish to know. We will have 
her called by the usual summons.” 

Thus saying, the mafiner of the shawl grave- 
ly quitted his guests, and descended into the 
inferior cabins of the vessel. It was but a mo- 
ment before there arose sounds from some se- 
cret though not distant quarter of the brigantine, 
that caused, in some measure, both surprise and 
pleasure to Ludlow and the patroon. Their com- 
panion had his motives for being insensible to 
either of these emotions. 

After a short and rapid symphony, a wind- 
instrument took up a wild strain, while a hu- 
man voice was again heard chanting to the music 
words which were so much involved, by the com- 
position of the air, as to render it impossible to 
trace more than that their burden was a sort of 
mysterious incantation of some ocean deity. 

“ Squeaking and flutes ! ” grumbled Myndert, 
ere the last sounds were fairly ended. “ This is 
downright heathenish ; and a plain-dealing man, 
who does business above-board, has good reason 
to wish himself honestly at church. What have 
we to do with land-witches, or water-witches, or 
any other witchcraft, that we stay in the brigan- 
tine, now it is known that my niece is not to be 
found aboard her ; and, moreover, even admitting 
that we were disposed to traffic, the craft has noth- 
ing in her that a man of Manhattan should want. 
The deepest bog of thy manor, patroon, is safer 
ground to tread on than the deck of a vessel that 
has got a reputation like that of this craft.” 

The scenes of which he was a witness had 
produced their effect on Van Staats of Kinder- 
hook. Of a slow imagination, but of a powerful 
and vast frame, be was not easily excited, either 
to indulge in fanciful images, or to suffer personal 


apprehension. Only a few years had passed since 
men, who in other respects were enlightened, firm- 
ly believed in the existence of supernatural agen- 
i cies in the control of the affairs of this life ; and 
though the New-Netherlanders had escaped the 
infatuation which prevailed so generally in the 
religious provinces of New England, a credulous 
superstition, of a less active quality, possessed the 
minds of the most intelligent sof the Dutch colo- 
nists, and even of their descendants so lately as in 
our own times. The art of divination was par- 
ticularly in favor; and it rarely happened that 
any inexplicable event affected the fortunes or 
comforts of the good provincialists, without their 
having recourse to some one of the more renowned 
fortune-tellers of the country for an explanation. 
Men of slow faculties love strong excitement, be- 
cause they are insensible to less powerful impulses, 
as men of hard heads find most enjoyment in 
strong liquors. The patroon was altogether of 
the sluggish cast ; and to him there was conse- 
quently a secret but deep pleasure in his present 
situation. 

“ What important results may flow from this 
adventure, we know not, Mr. Alderman Van Be- 
verout,” returned Oloff Yan Staats ; “ and I con- 
fess a desire to see and hear more, before we 
land. This Skimmer of the Seas is altogether a 
different man from what our rumors in the city 
have reported ; and, by remaining, we may set 
public opinion nearer to the truth. I have heard 
my late venerable aunt — ” 

“ Chimney-corners and traditions ! The good 
lady was no bad customer of these gentry, pa- 
troon ; and it is lucky that they got no more of thy 
inheritance, in the way of fees. You see the Lust 
in Rust against the mountain there; well, all 
that is meant for the public is on the outside, and 
all that is intended for my own private gratifica- 
tion is kept within-doors. — But here is Captain 
Ludlow; who has matters of the queen on his 
hands, and the gentleman will find it disloyal to 
waste the moments in this juggling.” 

“ I confess the same desire to witness the 
end„” dryly returned the commander of the Co- 
quette. “ The state of the wind prevents any 
immediate change in the positions of the two 
vessels ; and why not get a further insight into 
the extraordinary character of those who belong 
to the brigantine ? ” 

“Ay, there it is ! ” muttered the alderman be- 
tween his teeth. “ Your insights and outsights 
lead to all the troubles of life. One is never 
snug with these fantastics, which trifle with a 
secret, like a fly fluttering round a candle, until 
his wings get burnt.” 


A VISIT TO THE SEA-GREEN LADY. 


77 


As his companions seemed resolved to stay, 
however, there remained no alternative for the 
burgher but patience. Although apprehension 
of some indiscreet exposure was certainly the 
feeling uppermost in his mind, he was not entirely 
without some of the weakness which caused Oloff 
Van Staats to listen and to gaze with so much ob- 
vious interest and secret awe. Even Ludlow 
himself felt more affected than he would have 
willingly owned, by the extraordinary situation in 
which he was placed. No man is entirely insen- 
sible to the influence of sympathy, let it exert its 
power in what manner it will. Of this the young 
sailor was the more conscious, through the effect 
that was produced on himself, by the grave ex- 
terior and attentive manner of all the mariners 
of the brigantine. He was a seaman of no mean 
accomplishments ; and, among other attainments 
that properly distinguish men of his profession, 
he had learned to know the country of a sailor, 
by those general and distinctive marks which 
form the principal difference between men whose 
common pursuit has in so great a degree created 
a common character. Intelligence, at that day, 
was confined to narrow limits among those who 
dwelt on the ocean. Even the officer was but too 
apt to be one of rude and boisterous manners, of 
limited acquirements, and of deep and obstinate 
prejudices. No wonder, then, that the commonman 
was, in general, ignorant of most of those opin- 
ions which gradually enlighten society. Ludlow 
had seen, on entering the vessel, that her crew 
was composed of men of different countries. Age 
and personal character seemed to have been more 
consulted, in their selection, than national distinc- 
tions. There was a Finlander, with a credulous 
and oval physiognomy, sturdy but short frame, and 
a light vacant eye ; and a dark-skinned seaman of 
the Mediterranean, whose classical outline of feat- 
ure was often disturbed by uneasy and sensitive 
glances at the horizon. These two men had come 
and placed themselves near the group on the 
quarter-deck, when the last music was heard ; and 
Ludlow had ascribed the circumstance to a sen- 
sibility to melody, when the child Zephyr stole 
to their side, in a manner to show that more was 
meant by the movement than was apparent in the 
action itself. The appearance of Tiller, who in- 
vited the party to reenter the cabin, explained 
its meaning, by showing that these men, like 
themselves, had business with the being who, it 
was pretended, had so great an agency in control- 
ling the fortunes of the brigantine. 

The party, who now passed into the little ante- 
room, was governed by very different sensations. 
The curiosity of Ludlow was lively, fearless, and 


a little mingled with an interest that might be 
termed professional ; while that of his two com- 
panions was not without some inward reverence 
for the mysterious power of the sorceress. The 
two seamen manifested dull dependence, while 
the boy exhibited, in his ingenuous and half- 
terrified countenance, most unequivocally the in- 
fluence of childish awe. The mariner of the 
shawl was grave, silent, and, what was unusual 
in his deportment, respectful. After a moment’s 
delay, the door of the inner apartment was opened 
by Seadrift himself, and he signed for the whole 
to enter. 

A material change had been made in the ar- 
rangement of the principal cabin. The light was 
entirely excluded from the stern, and a crimson 
curtain had been lowered before the alcove. A 
small window, whose effect was to throw a dim 
obscurity within, had been opened in the side. 
The objects on which its light fell the strongest, 
received a soft covering from the hues of the 
hangings. 

The free-trader received his guests with a 
chastened air, bowing silently, and with less of 
levity in his mien than in the former interview. 
Still Ludlow thought there lingered a forced but 
sad smile about his handsome mouth ; and the 
patroon gazed at his fine features, with the ad- 
miration that one might feel for the most favored 
of those who were believed to minister at some 
supernatural shrine. The feelings of the aider- 
man were exhibited only by some half-suppressed 
murmurs of discontent, that from time to time es- 
caped him, notwithstanding a certain degree of 
reverence, that was gradually prevailing over his 
ill-concealed dissatisfaction. 

“ They tell me, you would speak with our mis- 
tress,” said the principal personage of the vessel, in 
a subdued voice. “ There are others, too, it would 
seem, who wish to seek counsel from her wisdom. 
It is now many months since we have had direct 
converse with her, though the book is ever open 
to all applicants for knowledge. You have nerves 
for the meeting ? ” 

“ Her majesty’s enemies have never reproached 
me with their want,” returned Ludlow, smiling 
incredulously. “ Proceed with your incantations, 
that we may know.” 

“We are not necromancers, sir, but faithful 
mariners, who do their mistress’s pleasure. I 
know that you are skeptical ; but bolder men 
have confessed their mistakes, with less testimony. 
Hist ! we are not alone. I hear the opening and 
shutting of the brigantine’s transoms.” 

The speaker then fell back nearly to the line 
in which the others had arranged themselves, and 


78 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


awaited the result in silence. The curtain rose 
to a low air on the same wind-instrument ; and 
even Ludlow felt an emotion more powerful than 
interest, as he gazed on the object that was re- 
vealed to view. 

A female form, attired, as near as might be, 
like the figure-head of the vessel, and standing 
in a similar attitude, occupied the centre of the 
alcove. As in the image, one hand held a book 
with its page turned toward the spectators, while 
a finger of the other pointed ahead, as if giving 
to the brigantine its course. The sea-green dra- 
pery was floating behind, as if it felt the influence 
of the air ; and the face had the same dark and 
unearthly hue, with its malign and remarkable 
smile. 

When the start and the first gaze of astonish- 
ment were over, the alderman and his companions 
glanced their eyes at each other in wonder. The 
smile on the look of the free-trader became less 
hidden, and it partook of triumph. 

“ If any here has aught to say to the lady of 
our bark, let him now declare it. She has come 
far, at our call, and will not tarry long.” 

“ I would then know,” said Ludlow, drawing 
a heavy breath, like one recovering from some 
sudden and powerful sensation, “ if she I seek 
be within the brigantine ? ” 

He who acted the part of mediator in this 
extraordinary ceremony, bowed and advanced to 
the book, which, with an air of deep reverence, 
he consulted, reading, or appearing to read, from 
its pages. 

“ You are asked here, in return for that you 
inquire, if she you seek is sought in sincerity ? ” 

Ludlow reddened ; the manliness of the profes- 
sion to which he belonged, however, overcame 
the reluctance natural to self-esteem ; and he an- 
swered, firmly: 

“ She is.” 

“But you are a mariner; men of the sea 
place their affections, often, on the fabric in 
which they dwell. Is the attachment for her you 
seek stronger than love of wandering, of your 
ship, your youthful expectations, and the glory 
that forms a young sailor’s dreams ? ” 

The commander of the Coquette hesitated. 
After a moment of pause, like that of self-exami- 
nation, he said : 

As much so as may become a man.” 

A cloud across the brow of his interrogator, 
who advanced and again consulted the pages of 
the book. 

“ You are required to say, if a recent event 
has not disturbed your confidence in her you 
seek ? ” 


“ Disturbed — but not destroyed.” 

The sea-green lady moved, and the pages of 
the mysterious volume trembled, as if eager to 
deliver their oracles. 

“ And could you repress curiosity, pride, and 
all the other sentiments of your sex, and seek 
her favor, without asking explanation, as before 
the occurrence of late events ? ” 

“ I would do much to gain a kind look from 
Alida de Barberie ; but the degraded spirit, of 
which you speak, would render me unworthy 
of her esteem. If I found her as I lost her, my 
life should be devoted to her happiness ; if not, 
to mourning that one so fair should have fall- 
en!” 

“ Have you ever felt jealousy ? ” 

“ First let me know if I have cause ! ” cried 
the young man, advancing a step toward the mo- 
tionless form with an evident intent to look closer 
into its character. 

The hand of the mariner of the shawl arrested 
him with the strength of a giant. 

“ trespass on the respect due our mis- 
tress, ’ coolly observed the vigorous seaman, 
while he motioned to the other to retreat. 

A fierce glance shot from his eye ; and then 
the recollection of his present helplessness came, 
in season, to restrain the resentment of the offend- 
ed officer. 

“ Hay e you ever felt jealousy ? ” continued 
his undisturbed interrogator. 

“ Would any love, that have not ? ” 

A gentle respiration was heard in the cabin, 
during the short pause that succeeded, though 
none could tell whence it came. The alderman 
turned to regard the patroon, as if he believed 
the sign was his ; while the startled Ludlow looked 
curiously around him, at a loss to know who ac- 
knowledged, with so much sensibility, the truth 
of his reply. 

“ Your answers are well,” resumed the free- 
trader, after a pause longer than usual. Then, 
turning to OlofFVan Staats, he said, “ Whom or 
what do you seek ? ” 

“We come on a common errand.” 

“ And do you seek in all sincerity ? ” 

“ I could wish to find.” 

“ It ou are rich in lands and houses ; is she you 
seek dear to you as this wealth ? ” 

“ I esteem them both, since one could not 
wish to tie a woman he admired to beggary.” 

The alderman hemmed so loud as to fill the 
cabin, and then, startled at his own interruption, 
he involuntarily bowed an apology to the motion- 
less form in the alcove, and regained his compos- 
ure. 


CONSULTING THE ORACLE. 


“ There is more of prudence than of ardor in 
your answer. Have you ever felt jealousy ? ” 

“ That has he I ” eagerly exclaimed Myndert. 
“ I’ve known the gentleman raving as a bear that 
has lost its cub, when my niece has smiled, in 
church, for instance, though it were only in an- 
swer to a nod from an old lady. Philosophy and 
composure, patroon ! Who the devil knows but 
Alida may hear of this questioning ? — and then 
her French blood will boil, to find that your 
love has always gone as regularly as the town- 
clock.” 

“ Could you receive her without inquiring into 
past events ? ” 

“ That would he — that would he ! ” Returned 
the alderman. “ I answer for it, that Mr. Van 
Staats complies with all engagements as punctu- 
ally as the best house in Amsterdam itself.” 

The book again trembled, but it was with a 
waving and dissatisfied motion. 

“ What is thy will with our mistress ? ” de- 
manded the free-trader, of the fair-haired sailor. 

“ I have bargained with some of the dealers 
of my country, for a wind to carry the brigantine 
through the inlet.” 

“ Go. — The Water-Witch will sail when there 
is need — and you ? ” 

“ I wish to know whether a few skins I bought 
last night, for a private venture, will turn to good 
account ? ” 

“ Trust the sea-green lady for your profits. 
When did she ever let any fail in a bargain ! — 
Child, what has brought thee hither ? ” 

The boy trembled, and a little time elapsed 
before he found resolution to answer. 

“ They tell me it is so queer to be upon the 
land ! ” 

“ Sirrah ! thou hast been answered. When 
others go, thou shalt go with them.” 

“ They say ’tis pleasant to taste the fruits 
from off the very trees — ■” 

“ Thou art answered. — Gentlemen, our mis- 
tress departs. She knows that one among you 
has threatened her favorite brigantine with the 
anger of an earthly queen ; but it is beneath her 
office to reply to threats so idle. Hark ! her at- 
tendants are in waiting ? ” 

The wind-instrument was once more heard, 
and the curtain slowly fell to its strains. A sud- 
den and violent noise, resembling the opening 
and shutting of some massive door, succeeded — 
then all was still. When the sorceress had dis- 
appeared, the free-trader resumed his former ease 
of manner, seeming to speak and act more natu- 
rally. Alderman Van Beverout drew a long 
breath, like one relieved ; and even the mariner 


79 

of the gay shawl stood in an easier and more 
reckless attitude than while in her presence. 
The two seamen and the child withdrew. 

“Few who wear that livery have ever before 
seen the lady of our brigantine,” continued the 
free-trader, addressing himself to Ludlow ; “ and 
it is proof that she has less aversion to your cruis- 
er than she in common feels to most of the long 
pennants that are abroad on the water.” 

“Thy mistress, thy vessel, and thyself, are 
alike amusing ! ” returned the young seaman, 
again smiling incredulously, and with some little 
official pride. “ It will be well, if you maintain 
this pleasantry much longer, at the expense of 
her majesty’s customs.” 

“We trust to the power of the Water-Witch. 
She has adopted our brigantine as her abode, 
given it her name, and guides it with her hand, 
’Twould be weak to doubt, when thus protected.” 

“ There may be occasion to try her virtues. 
Were she a spirit of the deep waters, her robe 
would be blue. Nothing of a light draught can 
escape the Coquette ? ” 

“ Dost not know that the color of the sea dif- 
fers in different climes ? We fear not, but you 
would have answers to your questions. Honest 
Tiller will carry you all to the land, and, in pass- 
ing, the book may again be consulted. I doubt 
not she will leave us some further memorial of 
her visit.” 

The free-trader then bowed, and retired be- 
hind the curtain, with the air of a sovereign dis- 
missing his visitors from an audience ; though his 
eye glanced curiously behind him, as he disap- 
peared, as if to trace the effect which had been 
produced by the interview. Alderman Van Be- 
verout and his friends where in the boat again, 
beforea syllable was exchanged between them. 
They had followed the mariner of the shawl, in 
obedience to his signal ; and they quitted the side 
of the beautiful brigantine, like men who pondered 
on what they had just witnessed. 

Enough has been betrayed, in the course of the 
narrative, perhaps to show, that Ludlow distrust- 
ed, though he could not avoid wondering at, what 
he had seen. He was not entirely free from the 
superstition that was then so common among sea- 
men ; but his education and native good sense 
enabled him in a great measure to extricate his 
imagination from that love of the marvellous 
which is more or less common to all. He had 
fifty conjectures concerning the meaning of what 
had passed, and not one of them was true ; though 
each, at the instant, seemed to appease his curi- 
osity, while it quickened his resolution to pry 
further into the affair. As for the Patroon of 


80 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


Kinderhook, the present day was one of rare and 
unequalled pleasure. He had all the gratification 
which strong excitement can produce in slow na- 
tures ; and he neither wished a solution of his 
doubts, nor contemplated any investigation that 
might destroy so agreeable an illusion. His fan- 
cy was full of the dark countenance of the sorcer- 
ess ; and, when it did not dwell on a subject so un- 
natural, it saw the handsome features, ambiguous 
smile, and attractive air, of her scarcely less ad- 
mirable minister. 

As the boat got to a little distance from the 
vessel, Tiller stood erect, and ran his eye com- 
placently over the perfection of her hull and rig- 
g in g- 

“Our mistress has equipped and sent upon 
the wide and unbeaten sea many a bark,” he 
said ; “ but never a lovelier than our own. — Cap- 
tain Ludlow, there has been some double-dealing 
between us ; but that which is to follow shall de- 
pend on our skill, our seamanship, and our heels. 
You serve Queen Anne, and I the sea-green lady. 
Let each be true to his mistress, and Heaven pre- 
serve the deserving !— Wilt see the book before 
we make the trial ? ” 

Ludlow intimated his assent, and the boat ap- 
proached the figure-head. It was impossible to 
prevent the feeling which each of our three ad- 
venturers, not excepting the alderman, felt when 
they came in full view of the motionless im age. 
The mysterious countenance appeared endowed 
with thought, and the malign smile seemed still 
more ironical than before. 

“ The first question was yours, and yours must 
be the first answered,” said Tiller, motioning for 
Ludlow to consult the page which was open. 

“ Our mistress deals chiefly in verses from the old 
writer whose thoughts are almost as common to 
us all as to human nature.” 

“ What means this ? ” said Ludlow, hastily : 

“ She, Claudio, that you wronged, look you restore 
— love her, Angelo ; 

I have confessed her, and I know her virtue.” 

“ These are plain words ; but I would rather 
that another priest should shrive her whom I 
love ! ” 

“Hist! — Young blood is swift and quickly 
heated. Our lady of the bark will not relish hot 
speech over her oracles. — Come, Master Patroon, 
turn the page with the rattan, and see what For- 
tune will give.” 

Oloff Van Staats raised his powerful arm, with 
the hesitation and yet with the curiosity of a 
girl. It was easy to read in his eye the pleasure 
his heavy nature felt in the excitement; yet it 
was easy to detect the misgivings of an erroneous 


education, by the seriousness of all the other 
members of his countenance. He read aloud : 

“ I have a motion much imports your good ; 

Whereto, if you’ll a willing ear incline, 

What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.— 

So bring us to our palace, where we’ll show, 

What’s yet behind, that’s meet you all should know.” 

Measube fob Measube. 

“ Fair-dealing, and fairer speech ! ‘ What’s 

yours is mine, and what is mine is yours,’ is meas- 
ure for measure, truly, patroon ! ” cried the aider- 
man. “ A more equitable bargain cannot be made, 
when the assets are of equal value. Here is en- 
couragement, in good sooth ; and now, Master 
Mariner, we will land and proceed to the Lust in 
Rust, which must be the place meant in the verses. 

‘ What’s yet behind,’ must be Alida, the torment- 
ing baggage ! who has been playing hide-and-seek 
with us, for no other reason than to satisfy her 
womanish vanity, by showing how uncomfortable 
she could make three grave and responsible men. 
— Let the boat go, Master Tiller, since that is thy 
name ; and many thanks for thy civilities.” 

“ ’Twould give grave offence to leave the lady, 
without knowing all she has to say. The answer 
now concerns you, worthy alderman ; and the rat- 
tan will do its turn, in your hand, as well as in 
that of another.” 

“ I despise a pitiful curiosity, and content my- 
self with knowing what chance and good luck 
teach,” returned Myndert. “ There are men in 
Manhattan ever prying into their neighbors’ 
credit, like frogs lying with their noses out of 
water ; but it is enough for me to know the state 
of my books, with some insight into that of the 
market.” 

“ It will not do. This may appease a quiet 
conscience, like your own, sir ; but we of the 
brigantine may not trifle with our mistress. One 
touch of the rattan will tell you whether these 
visits to the Water-Witch are likely to prove to 
your advantage.” 

Myndert wavered. It has been said that, 
like most others of his origin in the colony, he 
had a secret leaning to the art of divination : and 
the words of the hero of the shawl contained a flat- 
tering allusion to the profits of his secret commerce. 
He took the offered stick, and, by the time the 
page was turned, his eyes were ready enough to 
consult its contents. There was but a line, which 
was also quoted as coming from the well-known 
comedy of “ Measure for Measure : ” 

“ Proclaim it, provost, round about the city.” 

In his eagerness Myndert read the oracle aloud ; 
then he sank into his seat, affecting to laugh at 
the whole as a childish and vain conceit. 


81 


BOJ 

11 Proclamation me no proclamations ! Is it a 
time of hostilities, or of public danger, that one 
should go shouting with his tidings through the 
streets ? Measure for measure, truly ! Harkee, 
Master Tiller, this sea-green trull of thine is no 
better than she should be ; and unless she mend 
her manner of dealing, no honest man will be found 
willing to be seen in her company. I am no be- 
liever in necromancy— though the inlet has cer- 
tainly opened this year altogether in an unusual 
. manner — and therefore I put little faith in her 
words ; but as for saying aught of me or mine, in 
town or country, Holland or America, that can 
shake my credit, why, I defy her ! Still, I would 
not willingly have any idle stories to contradict; 
and I shall conclude by saying, you will do well 
to stop her mouth.” 

“ Stop a hurricane, or a tornado !" Truth will 
come in her book, and he that reads must expect 
to see it. — Captain Ludlow, you are master of 
your movements again ; for the inlet is no longer 
between you and your cruiser. Behind yon hil- 
lock is the boat and crew you missed. The latter 
expect ‘you. — And now, gentlemen, we leave the 
rest to the green lady’s guidance, our own good 
skill, and the winds ! I salute you.” 

The moment his companions were on the 
* shore, the hero of the shawl caused his boat to 
quit it ; and in less than five minutes it was seen 
swinging by its tackles at the stern of the brigan- 
tine. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

* 

“ like Arion on the dolphin’s back 

I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves, 

So long as I could see.” 

Tempest. 

There was one curious though half-confounded 
observer of all that passed in and around the 
cove, on the morning in question. This person- 
age was no other than the slave called Bonnie, 
who was the factotum of his master, over the 
’ demesnes of the Lust in Rust, during the time 
when the presence of the alderman was required 
in the city ; which was, in truth, at least four- 
fifths of the year. Responsibility and confidence 
had produced their effect on this negro, as on more 
cultivated minds. He had been used to act in 
(situations of care; and practice had produced a 
f habit of vigilance and observation, that was not 
common in men of his unfortunate condition. 
There is no moral truth more certain than that 
men, when once accustomed to this species of 
domination, as readily submit their minds as their 
6 


bodies to the control of others. Thus it is that 
we see entire nations maintaining so many errone- 
ous maxims, merely because it has suited the in- 
terests of those who do the thinking, to give forth 
these fallacies to their followers. Fortunately, 
however, for the improvement of the race and the 
advancement of truth, it is only necessary to give 
a man an opportunity to exercise his natural facul- 
ties in order to make him a reflecting and in some 
degree an independent being. Such, though to a 
very limited extent certainly, had been the conse- 
quence in the instance of the slave just men- 
tioned. 

How far Bonnie had been concerned in the 
proceedings between his master and the mariners 
of the brigantine, it is unnecessary to say. Lit- 
tle passed at the villa of which he was ignorant ; 
and as curiosity, once awakened, increases its own 
desire for indulgence, could he have had his wish, 
little would have passed anywhere near him, with- 
out his knowing something of its nature and im- 
port. He had seen, while seemingly employed 
with his hoe in the garden of the alderman, the 
trio conveyed by Erasmus across the inlet ; and 
watched the manner in which they followed its 
margin to the shade of the oak, and had seen 
them enter the brigantine, as related. That this 
extraordinary visit on board a vessel which was in 
common shrouded by so much mystery, had given 
rise to much and unusual reflection in the mind 
of the black, was apparent by the manner in which 
he so often paused in his labor, and stood leaning 
on the handle of his hoe. He had never known 
his master so far overstep his usual caution as to 
quit the dwelling during the occasional visits of 
the free-trader ; yet he had now gone as it were in- 
to the very jaws of the lion, accompanied by the 
commander of a royal cruiser. Ho wonder, then, 
that the vigilance of the negro became still more 
active, and that not even the slightest circumstance 
was suffered to escape his admiring eye. During 
the whole time consumed by the visit related in 
the preceding chapter, not a minute had been suf- 
fered to pass without an inquiring look in the di- 
rection either of the brigantine or of the adjacent 
shore. 

It is scarcely necessary to say how keen the 
attention of the slave became, when his master 
and his companions were seen to return to the 
land. They immediately ascended to the foot 
of the oak, where there was a long and appar- 
ently a serious conference between them. Dur- 
ing this consultation, the negro never suffered his 
gaze, for an instant, to alter its direction. In- 
deed, he scarcely drew breath, until the whole 
party quitted the spot together, and buried them- 


82 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


selves in the thicket that covered the cape, tak- 
ing the direction of its outer or northern extrem- 
ity, instead of retiring by the shore of the cove, 
toward the inlet. Then Bonnie respired heavily, 
and began to look about him at the other objects 
that properly belonged to the interest of the 
scene. 

The brigantine had run up her boat, and she 
now lay, as when first seen, a motionless, beauti- 
ful, and exquisitely graceful fabric, without the 
smallest sign about her of an intention to move, 
or indeed without exhibiting any other proof, ex- 
cept in her admirable order and symmetry, that 
any of human powers dwelt within her hull. The 
royal cruiser, though larger and of far less aerial 
mould and fashion, presented the same picture 
of repose. The distance between the two was 
about a league; and Bonnie was sufficiently 
familiar with the formation of the land and the 
position of the vessels to be quite aware that 
this inactivity on the part of those whose duty 
it was to protect the rights of the queen, pro- 
ceeded from their utter ignorance of the proxim- 
ity of their neighbor. The thicket which bounded 
the cove, and the growth of oaks and pines that 
stretched along the narrow, sandy spit of land 
quite to its extremity, sufficiently accounted for 
the fact. The negro, therefore, after gazing for 
several minutes at the two immovable vessels, 
turned his eye askance on the earth, shook his 
head, and burst into a laugh, which was so noisy 
that it caused his sable partner to thrust' her va- 
cant and circular countenance through an open 
window of the scullery of the villa, to demand 
the reason' of a merriment that to her faithful 
feelings appeared to be a little unsocial. 

“ Hey ! you alway’ keep ’e queer t’ing to he- 
self, Bonnie, but ! ” cried the vixen, I’m werry 
glad to see old bones like a hoe; an’ I wonner’ 
dere ar’ time to laugh, wid’e garden full of 
weed ! ” 

“ Grach ! ” exclaimed the negro, stretching out 
an arm in a forensic attitude; “what a black 
woman know of politic ! If a hab time to talk, 
better cook.a dinner. Tell one t’ing, Phyllis, and 
that be dis : vy ’e ship of Captain Ludlow no 
lif ’e anchor, an’ come take dis rogue in ’e cove ? 
can a tell dat much, or no ? — if no, let a man, who 
understan’ heself, laugh much as he like. A lit- 
tle fun no harm Queen Anne nor kill ’e gubbe- 
nor ! ” 

“ All work and no sleep make old bone ache, 
Bonnie, but ! ” returned the consort. “ Ten 
o’clock— twelve o’clock— free o’clock, and no 
bed; veil I see ’e sun afore a black fool put ’e 
head on a pillow !— An’ now a hoe go all ’e same 


as if he sleep a ten hour. Masser Myn’ert got a 
heart, and he no wish to kill he people wid work, 
or old Phyllis war’ dead, fifty year, next winter.” 

“ I t’ink a wench’s tongue nebber satisfy ! 
What for tell a whole world when Bonnie go to 
bed ? He sleep for heself, and he no sleep for ’e 
neighborhood! Dere! A man can’t fink of 
ebery t’ing in a minute. Here a ribbon long 
enough to hang heself — take him and den re- 
mem’er, Phyllis, dat you be ’e wife of a man who 
hab care on he shoul’er.” 

Bonnie then set up another laugh, in which 
his partner, having quitted her scullery to seize 
the gift, which in its colors resembled the skin ; 
of a garter-snake, did not fail to join through ■■ 
mere excess of animal delight. The effect of the j 
gift, however, was to leave the negro to make his 
observations, without any further interruption 
from one who was a little too apt to disturb his ( 
solitude. ^ 

A boat was now seen to pull out from among 
the bushes that lined the shore ; and Bonnie was j 
enabled to distinguish, in its stern-sheets, the 
persons of his master, Ludlow, and the ^atroon. 
He had been acquainted with the seizure of the 
Coquette’s barge the preceding night, and with 
the confinement of the crew. Its appearance in 
that place, therefore, occasioned no new surprise 
But the time which passed while the men were 
rowing up to the sloop-of-war, was filled with 
minutes of increasing interest. The black aban- 
doned his hoe, and took a position on the side of 
the mountain that gave him a view of the whole 
bay. So long as the mysteries of the Lust in 
Rust had been confined to the ordinary combina- i 
tions of a secret trade, he had been fully able to 
comprehend them ; but now that there apparent- 
ly existed an alliance so unnatural as one between 
his master and the cruiser of the crown, he felt 
the necessity of double observation and of great- 
er thought. 

A far more enlightened mind than that of the 
slave might have been excited by the expectation 
and the objects which now presented themselves, 
especially if sufficiently prepared for events, by a 
knowledge of the two vessels in sight. Though 
the wind still hung at east, the cloud above the j 
mouth of the Raritan at length began to rise. The 
broad fleeces of white vapor, that had lain the 
whole morning over the continent, were rapidly' 1 ', ■ 
uniting; and they formed already a dark and 
dense mass, that floated in the bottom of the estu- 
ary, threatening shortly to roll over the whole of 
its wide waters. The air was getting lighter, and 
variable ; and while the wash of the surf sounded 1 
still more audible, its roll upon the beach was less . 


THE COQUETTE UNDER CANVAS. 


83 


regular than in the earlier hours of the day. Such 
was the state of the two elements, when the boat 
touched the side of the ship. In a minute it was 
hanging by its tackles, high in the air ; then it 
disappeared in the bosom of the dark mass. 

It far exceeded the intelligence of Bonnie to 
detect, now, any further signs of preparation in 
either of the two vessels which absorbed the 
whole of his attention. They appeared to him to 
be alike without motion, and equally without peo- 
ple. There were, it is true, a few specks in the 
rigging of the Coquette, which might be seen ; 
but the distance prevented him from being sure 
of the fact ; and, admitting them to be seamen 
busied aloft, there were no visible consequences 
of their presence, that his uninstructed eye could 
trace. In a minute or two, even these scattered 
specks were seen no longer ; though the attentive 
black thought that the mast-heads and tiie rig- 
ging beneath the tops thickened, as if surrounded 
by more than their usual mazes of ropes. At 
that moment of suspense, the cloud over the Eari- 
! tan emitted a flash. This seemed to be a signal 
! for the cruiser; for when the eye of Bonnie, 
j which had been directed to the heavens, returned 
toward the ship, he saw that she had opened and 
[ hoisted her three topsails, seemingly with as little 
exertion as an eagle would have spread his wings. 
The ship now became uneasy ; for the wind' came 
■ in puffs, and the vessel rolled lightly, as if strug- 
gling to extricate itself from the hold of its an- 
chor ; and precisely at the moment when the shift 
I of wind was felt, and the breeze came from the 
cloud in the west, the cruiser whirled away from its 
constrained position, and, appearing for a short 
'space restless as a steed that had broken from its 
fastenings, it came up heavily to the wind, and lay 
balanced by the action of its sails. There was an- 
other minute or two of seeming inactivity, after 
! which the broad surfaces of the top-sails were 
brought in parallel lines. One white sheet was 
[ spread after another upon the fabric ; and Bonnie 
I ' saw that the Coquette, the swiftest cruiser of the 
crown in those seas, was dashing out from the land 
under a cloud of canvas. 

All this time the brigantine in the cove lay 
quietly at her anchor. When the wind shifted, 
the light hull swung with its currents, and the im- 
age of the sea-green lady was seen offering her 
' dark cheek to be fanned by the breeze. But she 
alone seemed to watch over the fortunes of her 
followers ; for no other eye could be seen looking 
out on the danger that began so seriously to 
l threaten them, both from the heavens, and from a 
i more certain and intelligible foe. 

As the wind was fresh, though unsteady, the Co- 


quette moved through the water with a velocity 
that did no discredit to her reputation for speed. 
At first it seemed to be the intention of the royal 
cruiser to round the cape, and gain an offing in 
the open sea, for her head was directed north- 
wardly ; but no sooner had she cleared the curve 
of the little bight which, from its shape, is known 
by the name of the Horseshoe, than she was 
seen shooting directly into the eye of the wind, 
and falling off with the graceful and easy motion 
of a ship in stays, her head looking toward the 
Lust in Rust. Her design on the notorious dealer 
in contraband was now too evident to admit of 
doubt. 

Still, the Water-Witch betrayed no symptoms 
of alarm. The meaning eye of the image seemed 
to study the motions of her adversary with all 
the understanding of an intelligent being; and 
occasionally the brigantine turned slightly in the 
varying currents of the air, as if volition directed 
the movements of the little fabric. These changes 
resembled the quick and slight movements of the 
hound, as he lifts his head in his lair, to listen to 
some distant sound, or to scent some passing taint 
in the gale. 

In the mean time, the approach of the ship was 
so swift as to cause the negro to shake his head 
with a meaning that exceeded even his usually 
important look. Every thing was propitious to 
her progress ; and as the water of the cove, dur- 
ing the periods that the inlet remained open, w;as 
known to be of a sufficient depth to admit of her 
entrance, the faithful Bonnie began to anticipate 
a severe blow to the future fortunes of his master. 
The only hope that he could perceive for the es- 
cape of the smuggler, was in the changes of the 
heavens. 

Although the threatening cloud had now 
quitted the mouth of the Raritan, and was rolling 
eastward with fearful velocity, it had not yet 
broken. The air had the unnatural and heated 
appearance which precedes a gust ; but, with the 
exception of a few large drops, that fell seemingly 
from a clear sky, it was as yet what is called a 
dry squall. The water of the bay was occasion- 
ally dark, angry, and green ; and there were mo- 
ments when it would appear as if heavy currents 
of air descended to its surface, wantonly to try 
their power on the sister element. Notwithstand- 
ing these sinister omens, the Coquette stood on 
her course, without lessening the wide surfaces 
of her canvas by a single inch. They who gov- 
erned her movements were no men of the lazy 
Levant, nor of the mild waters of the Mediterra- 
nean, to tear their hair, and call on saints to stand 
between their helplessness and harm ; but mari- 


84 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


ners trained in a boisterous sea, and accustomed 
to place their first dependence on their own good 
manhood, aided by the vigilance and skill of a 
long and severely exercised experience. A hun- 
dred eyes on board that cruiser watched the ad- 
vance of the rolling cloud, or looked upon the 
play of light and shade, that caused the color of 
the water to vary ; but it was steadily, and with 
an entire dependence on the discretion of the 
young officer who controlled the movements of 
the ship. 

Ludlow himself paced the deck with all his 
usual composure, so far as might be seen by ex- 
ternal signs; though in reality his mind was 
agitated by feelings that were foreign to the duties 
of his station. He, too, had thrown occasional 
glances at the approaching squall, but his eye 
was far oftener riveted on the motionless brigan- 
tine, which was now distinctly to be seen from 
the deck of the Coquette, still riding at her an- 
chor. The cry of “ A stranger in the cove ! ” which 
a few minutes before came out of one of the tops, 
caused no surprise in the commander ; while the 
crew, wondering but obedient, began for the first 
time to perceive the object of their strange ma- 
noeuvres. Even the officer next in authority to 
the captain had not presumed to make any inquiry, 
though now that the object of their search was so 
evidently in view, he felt emboldened to presume 
on his rank, and to venture a remark. 

“ It is a sweet craft S ” said the staid lieuten- 
ant, yielding to an admiration natural to his 
habits, “and one that might serve as a yacht for 
the queen ! This is some trifler with the reve- 
nue, or perhaps a buccaneer from the islands. 
The fellow shows no ensign!” 

“ Give him notice, sir, that he has to do with 
one who bears the royal commission,” returned 
Ludlow, speaking from habit, and half uncon- 
scious of what he said. “We must teach these 
rovers to respect a pennant.” 

The report of the cannon startled the absent 
man, and caused him to remember the order. 

“Was that gun shotted?” he asked, in a 
tone that sounded like rebuke. 

“Shotted, but pointed wide, sir; merely a 
broad hint. We are no dealers in dumb show in 
the Coquette, Captain Ludlow.” 

“ I would not injure the vessel, even should 
it prove a buccaneer. Be careful that nothing 
strikes her, without an order.” 

“Ay, ’twill be well to take the beauty alive, 
sir ; so pretty a boat should not be broken up, 
like an old hulk. Ha ! there goes his bunting, at 
last! He shows a white field— can the fellow 
be a Frenchman, after all ? ” 


The lieutenant took a glass, and for a moment 
applied it to his eye with the usual steadiness. 
Then he suffered the instrument to fall, and it 
would seem that he endeavored to recall the dif- 
ferent flags that he had seen during the experi- 
ence of many years. 

“This joker should come from some terra in- 
cognita ,” he said. “ Here is a woman in his field, 
with an ugly countenance, too, unless the glass 
play me false — as I live, the rogue has her coun- 
terpart for a figure-head ! Will you look at the 
ladies, sir ? ” 

Ludlow took the glass, and it was not without 
curiosity that he turned it toward the colors the 
hardy smuggler dared to exhibit in presence of a 
cruiser. The vessels were, by this time, sufficient- 
ly near each other to enable him to distinguish 
the swarthy features and malign smile of the sea- 
green lady, whose form was wrought in the field 
of the ensign, with the same art as that which : 
he had seen so often displayed in other parts of j 
the brigantine. Amazed at the daring of the j 
free-trader, he returned the glass and continued I 
to pace the deck in silence. There stood near 
the two speakers an officer whose head and form 
began to show the influence of time, and who, 
from his position, had unavoidably been an audi- 
tor of what passed. Though the eye of this per- 
son, who was the sailing-master of the sloop, was 
rarely off the threatening cloud, except to glance 
along the wide show of canvas that was spread, he 
found a moment to take a look at the stranger. 

“A half-rigged brig, with her foretop-gallant- 
mast Added abaft, a double martingale, and a 
standing gaft,” observed the methodical and 
technical mariner, as another would have re- 
counted the peculiarities of complexion or of 
feature in some individual who was the subject I 
of a personal description. “ The rogue has no 
need of showing his brazen-faced trull to be 
known ! I chased him, for six-and-thirty hours, 
in the chops of St. George’s, no later than the 
last season ; and the fellow ran about us, like a 
dolphin playing under a ship’s fore-foot. We had 
him now on our weather-bow, and now crossing 
our course, and once in a while in our wake, as 
if he had been a Mother Carey’s chicken looking 
for our crumbs. He seems snug enough in that 
cove, to be sure, yet I’ll wager the pay of any 
month in the twelve, that he gives us the slip. 
Captain Ludlow, the brigantine under our lee 
here, in Spermaceti, is the well-known Skimmer 
of the Seas ! ” 

“ The Skimmer of the Seas ! ” echoed twenty 
voices, in a manner to show the interest created 
by the unexpected information. 


THE SAILING-MASTER’S OPINION. 


85 


» “I’ll swear to his character before any ad- 
miralty judge in England or even in France, should 
there be occasion to go into an outlandish court ; 
but no need of an oath, when here is a written 
account I took, with my own hands, having the 
chase in plain view, at noonday.” While speak- 
ing, the. sailing-master drew a tobacco-box from 
his pocket, and, removing a coil of pigtail, he 
came to a deposit of memorandums that vied with 
the weed itself in color. “Now, gentlemen,” he 
continued, “you shall have her build, as justly 
as if the master-carpenter had laid it down with 
his rule. ‘ Remember to bring a muff of marten’s 
fur from America, for Mrs. Trysail — buy it in 
London, and swear ’ — this is not the paper — I let 
your boy, Mr. Luff, stow away the last entry of 
tobacco for me, and the young dog has disturbed 
every document I own. This is the way the gov- 
ernment accounts get jammed, when Parliament 
wants to overhaul them. But I suppose young 
blood will have its run ! I let a monkey into a 
; church of a Saturday night myself, when a young- 
ster, and he made such a stowage of the prayer- 
! books that the whole parish was by the ears for 
six months; and there is one quarrel between 
two old ladies that has not been made up to this 
hour. — Ah! here we have it: ‘ Skimmer of the 
I Seas. Full-rigged forward, with fore-and-aft main- 
sail abaft ; a gaff-topsail ; taut in his spars, with 
light top-hamper ; neat in his gear, as any beau- 
ty — carries a ring-tail in light weather ; main-boom 
like a frigate’s topsail-yard, with a main-topmast- 
staysail as big as a jib. Low in the water, with 
a woman figure-head; carries sail more like a 
devil than a human being, and lies within four 
and a half points, when jammed up hard on a 
wind.’ Here are marks by which one of Queen 
I Anne’s maids of honor might know the rogue ; 
j and there you see them all, as plainly as human 
nature can show them in a ship ! ” 

“The Skimmer of the Seas!” repeated the 
young officers, who had crowded around the vet- 
eran tar to hear this characteristic description of 
the notorious free-trader. 

“ Skimmer or flier, we have him now, dead 
under our lee, with a sandy beach on three of his 
sides, and the wind in his eye ! ” cried the first-lieu- 
tenant. “You shall have an opportunity, Mas- 
ter Trysail, of correcting your account by actual 
measurement.” 

The sailing-master shook his head, like one 
who doubted, and again turned his eye on the ap- 
proaching cloud. 

The Coquette, by this time, had run so far as 
to have the entrance of the cove open ; and she 
was separated from her object only by a distance | 


of a few cables’ length. In obedience to an order 
given by Ludlow, all the light canvas of the ship 
was taken in, and the vessel was left under her 
three topsails and jib. There remained, however, 
a question as to the channel ; for it was not usual 
for ships of the Coquette’s draught to be seen in 
that quarter of the bay, and the threatening state 
of the weather rendered caution doubly necessary. 
The pilot shrank from a responsibility which did 
not properly belong to his office, since the ordina- 
ry navigation had no concern with that secluded 
place ; and even Ludlow, stimulated as he was 
by so many powerful motives, hesitated to incur 
a risk which greatly exceeded his duty. There 
was something so remarkable in the apparent se- 
curity of the smuggler, that it naturally led to the 
belief he was certain of being protected by some 
known obstacle, and it was decided to sound be- 
fore the ship was hazarded. An offer to carry the 
free-trader with the boats, though plausible in it- 
self, and perhaps the wisest course of all, was re- 
jected by the commander, on an evasive plea of 
its being of uncertain issue, though, in truth, be- 
cause he felt an interest in one whom he believed 
the brigantine to contain, which entirely forbade 
the idea of making the vessel the scene of so vio- 
lent a struggle. A yawl was therefore lowered 
into the water, the main-topsail of the ship was 
thrown to the mast ; and Ludlow himself, accom- 
panied by the pilot and the master, proceeded to 
ascertain the best approach to the smuggler. A 
flash of lightning, with one of those thunder-claps 
that are wont to be more terrific on this conti- 
nent than in the other hemisphere, warned the 
young mariner of the necessity of haste, if he 
would regain his ship before the cloud, which still 
threatened them, should reach the spot where she 
lay. The boat pulled briskly into the cove, both 
the master and the pilot sounding on each side, 
as fast as the leads could be cast from their hands 
and recovered. 

“ This will do,” said Ludlow when they had 
ascertained that they could enter. “ I would lay 
the ship as close as possible to the brigantine, for 
I distrust her quiet. We will go nearer.” 

“ A brazen witch, and one whose saucy eye 
and pert figure might lead any honest mariner in- 
to contraband, or even into a sea-robbery ! ” half- 
whispered Trysail, perhaps afraid to trust his 
voice within hearing of a creature that seemed 
almost endowed with the faculties of life. “ Ay, 
this is the hussy ! I know her by the book and 
her green jacket! But where are her people? 
The vessel is as quiet as the royal vault on a cor- 
onation day, when the last king and those who 
went before him commonly have the place to 


86 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


themselves. Here would be a pretty occasion 
to throw a boat’s crew on her decks, and haul 
down yon impudent ensign, which bears the 
likeness of this wicked lady so bravely in the air, 
if—” 

“If what?” asked Ludlow, struck with the 
plausible character of the proposal. 

“ Why, if one were sure of the nature of such 
a mins, sir ; for, to own the truth, I would rather 
deal with a regularly-built Frenchman, who showed 
his guns honestly, and kept such a jabbering 
aboard that one might tell his bearings in the dark. 
— The creature spoke ! ” 

Ludlow did not reply, for a heavy crash of 
thunder succeeded the vivid glow of a flash of 
lightning, and glared so suddenly across the swar- 
thy lineaments as to draw the involuntary exclama- 
tion from Trysail. The intimation that came from 
the cloud was not to be disregarded. The wind, 
which had so long varied, began to be heard in 
the rigging of the silent brigantine ; and the two 
elements exhibited unequivocal evidence, in their 
menacing and fitful colors, of the near approach 
of the gust. The young sailor, with an absorbing 
interest, turned his eyes on his ship. The yards 
were on the caps, the bellying canvas was flutter- 
ing far to leeward, and twenty or thirty human 
forms on each spar, showed that the nimble- 
fingered topmen were gathering in and knotting 
the sails down to a close reef. 

“ Give way, men, for your lives ! ” cried the ex- 
cited Ludlow. 

A single dash of the oars was heard, and the 
yawl was already twenty feet from the mysteri- 
ous image. Then followed a desperate struggle 
to regain the cruiser, ere the gust should strike 
her. The sullen murmur of the wind, rushing 
through the rigging of the ship, was audible some 
time before they reached her side ; and the strug- 
gles between the fabric and the elements were at 
moments so violent as to cause the young com- 
mander to fear he would be too late. 

The foot of Ludlow touched the deck of the 
Coquette at the instant the weight of the squall 
fell upon her sails. He no longer thought of any 
interest but that of the moment ; with all the 
feelings of a seaman, his mind was now full of 
his ship. 

“ Let run every thing ! ” shouted the ready 
officer, in a voice that made itself heard above 
the roar of the wind. “ Clew down, and hand ! 
— Away aloft, you topmen ! — lay out ! — furl 
away ! ” 

These orders were given in rapid succession, 
and without a trumpet, for the young man could, 
at need, speak loud as the tempest. They were 


succeeded by one of those exciting and fearful 
minutes that are so familiar to mariners. Each 
man was intent on his duty, while the elements 
worked their will around him as madly as if, the 
hand by which they were ordinarily restrained 
was forever removed. The bay was a sheet of 
foam, while the rushing of the gust resembled the 
dull rumbling of a thousand chariots. The ship 
yielded to the pressure, until the water was seen 
gushing through her lee-scuppers, and' her tall 
line of masts inclined toward the plane of the 
bay, as if the ends of the yards were about to 
dip into the water. But this was no more than 
the first submission to the shock. The well- 
moulded fabric recovered its balance, and strug- 
gled through its element, as if conscious that 
there was security only in motion. Ludlow 
glanced his eye to leeward. The opening of the 
cove was favorably situated, and he caught a 
glimpse of the spars of the brigantine, rocking 
violently in the squall. He spoke to demand if 
the anchors were clear ; then he was heard, shout- 
ing again from his station in the weather-gang- 
way: 

Hard a-weather ! — ” 

The first efforts of the cruiser to obey her 
helm, stripped as she was of canvas, were labored 
and slow. But when her head began to fall off, 
the driving scud was scarce swifter than her mo- 
tion. At that moment, the sluices of the cloud 
opened, and a torrent of rain mingled in the up- 
roar, and added to the confusion. Nothing was 
now visible but the lines of the falling water, and 
the sheet of white foam through which the ship 
was glancing. 

“ Here is the land, sir ! ” bellowed Trysail, 
from a cat-head, where he stood resembling lome 
venerable sea-god, dripping with his native ele- 
ment. “ We are passing it, like a race-horse ! ” 

“ See your bowers clear ! ” shouted back the 
captain. 

“ Ready, sir, ready — ” 

Ludlow motioned to the men at the wheel to 
bring the ship to the wind ; and, when her way 
was sufficiently deadened, two ponderous anchors ! 
dropped, at another signal, into the water. The 
vast fabric was not checked without a further and 
tremendous struggle. When the bows felt the re- 
straint, the ship swung head to wind, and fathom 
after fathom of the enormous ropes was ex-' 
tracted, by surges so violent as to cause the hull to 
quiver to its centre. But the first-lieutenant and 
Trysail were no novices in their duty, and in less 
than a minute they had secured the vessel steadily 
at her anchors. When this important service was 
performed, officers and crew stood looking at each 


DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BRIGANTINE. 


87 


other, like men who had just made a hazardous 
and fearful experiment. The view again opened, 
and obj ects on the land became visible through the 
still falling rain. The change was like that from 
night to day. Men who had passed their lives 
on the sea drew long and relieving breaths, con- 
scious that the danger was happily passed. As 
the more pressing interest of their own situation 
abated, they remembered the object of their 
search. All eyes were turned in quest of the 
smuggler ; but, by some inexplicable means, he had 
disappeared. 

“ The Skimmer of the Seas ! ” and “ What has 
become of the brigantine ? ” were exclamations 
that the discipline of a royal cruiser could not re- 
press. They were repeated by a hundred mouths, 
while twice as many eyes sought to find the beau- 
tiful fabric. All looked in vain. The spot where 
the Water-Witch had so lately lain was vacant, 
and no vestige of her wreck lined the shores of 
the cove. During the time the ship was handing 
her sails, and preparing to enter the cove, no one 
had leisure to look for the stranger ; and after 
the vessel had anchored, until that moment, it 
was not possible to see her length on any side of 
them. There was still a dense mass of falling 
water moving seaward ; but the curious and anx- 
ious eyes of Ludlow made fruitless efforts to 
penetrate its secrets. Once, indeed, more than 
an hour after the gust had reached his own ship, 
and when the ocean in the offing was clear and 
calm, he thought he could distinguish, far to sea- 
ward, the delicate tracery of a vessel’s spars, 
drawn against the horizon, without any canvas 
set. But a second look did not assure him of 
the truth of the conjecture. * 

There were many extraordinary tales related 
that night, onboard her Britannic majesty’s ship 
Coquette. The boatswain affirmed that, while pip- 
ing below in order to overhaul the cables, he had 
heard a screaming in the air, that sounded as if 
a hundred devils were mocking him, and which 
he told the gunner, in confidence, he believed was 
no more than the winding of a call on board the 
brigantine, who had taken occasion, when other 
vessels were glad to anchor, to get under way, in 
her own fashion. There was also a foretop-man 
named Robert Yarn, a fellow whose faculty for 
story-telling equalled that of Scheherazade, and 
who not only asserted, but who confirmed the dec- 
laration by many strange oaths, that while he lay 
on the lee-foretop-sail-yard-arm, stretching forth 
an arm to grasp the leech of the sail, a dark-look- 
ing female fluttered over his head, and caused her 
long hair to whisk into his face, in a manner that 
compelled him to shut his eyes, which gave occa- 


sion to a smart reprimand from the reefer of the 
top. There was a feeble attempt to explain this 
assault, by the man who lay next to Yam, who 
affected to think the hair was no more than the 
end of a gasket whipping in the wind ; but his 
shipmate, who had pulled one of the oars of the 
yawl, soon silenced this explanation, by the virtue 
of his long-established reputation for veracity. 
Even Trysail ventured several mysterious con- 
jectures concerning the fate of the brigantine, in 
the gun-room ; but, on returning from the duty 
of sounding the inlet, whither he had been sent 
by his captain, he. was less communicative and 
more thoughtful than usual. It appeared, indeed, 
from the surprise that was manifested by every 
officer that heard the report of the quartermas- 
ter, who had given the casts of the lead on this 
service, that no one in the ship, with the excep- 
tion of Alderman Yan Beverout, was at all aware 
that there was rather more than two fathoms of 
water in that secret passage. 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

“ Sirs, take your places, and be vigilant.” 

Henby IY. 

The succeeding day was one in which the 
weather had a fixed character. The wind was 
east, and, though light, not fluctuating. The air 
had that thick and hazy appearance which prop- 
erly belongs to the autumn in this climate, but 
which is sometimes seen at midsummer, when a 
dry wind blows from the ocean. The roll of the 
surf on the shore was regular and monotonous, 
and the currents of the air were so steady as to 
remove every apprehension of a change. The 
moment to which the action of the tale is trans- 
ferred was in the earlier hours of the afternoon. 

At that time the Coquette lay again at her an- 
chors, just within the shelter of the cape. There 
were a few small sails to be seen passing up the 
bay ; but the scene, as was common at that dis- 
tant day, presented little of the activity of our 
own times. The windows of the Lust in Rust 
were again open, and the movement of the slaves 
in and about the villa announced the presence of 
its master. 

The alderman was in truth, at the hour named, 
pacing the little lawn in front of la Cour des Fees, 
accompanied by Oloff Yan Staats and the com- 
mander of the cruiser. It was evident, by the 
frequent glances which the latter threw in the di- 
rection of the pavilion, that he still thought of her 
who was absent ; while the faculties of the two 


88 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


others were either in better subjection, or less 
stimulated by anxiety. One who understood the 
character of the individual, and who was acquaint- 
ed with the past, might have suspected, by this 
indifference on the part of the patroon, placed as 
it was in such a singular contrast to ' a sort of 
mysterious animation which enlivened a counte- 
nance whose ordinary expression was placid con- 
tent, that the young suitor thought less than 
formerly of the assets of old Etienne, and more 
of the secret pleasure he found in the singular in- 
cidents of which he had been a witness. 

“ Propriety and discretion ! ” observed the 
burgher, in reply to a remark of one of the young 
men — “I say again, for the twentieth time, that 
we shall have Alida Barberie back among us as 
handsome, as innocent, ay, and as rich as ever — - 
perhaps I should also say, as wilful ! A baggage — 
to worry her old uncle, and two honorable suit- 
ors, in so thoughtless a manner ! Circumstances, 
gentlemen,” continued the wary merchant, who 
saw that the value of the hand of which he had 
to dispose, was somewhat reduced in the market, 
“have placed you on a footing in my esteem. 
Should my niece, after all, prefer Captain Ludlow 
for a partner, in her worldly affairs, why it should 
not weaken friendship between the son of old 
Stephanus Yan Staats and Myndert Yan Bever- 
out. Our grandmothers were cousins, and there 
should be charities in the same blood.” 

“I could not wish to press my suit,” returned 
the patroon, “ when the lady has given so direct 
a hint that it is disagreeable — ” 

“Hint me no hints ! Do you call this caprice 
of a moment, this trifling, as the captain here 
would call it, with the winds and tides, a hint ? 
The girl has Norman blood in her veins, and she 
wishes to put animation into the courtship. If 
bargains were to be interrupted by a little cheap- 
ening of the buyer, and some affectation of wait- 
ing for a better market in the seller, her majesty 
might as well order her custom-houses to be closed 
at once, and look to other sources for revenue. 
Let the girl’s fancy have its swing, and the profits 
of a year’s peltry against thy rent-roll, we shall see 
her penitent for her folly, and willing to hear rea- 
son. My sister’s daughter is no witch to go jour- 
neying forever about the world on a broom- 
stick ! ” 

“ There is a tradition in our family,” said 
Oloff Yan Staats, his eye lighting with a mysteri- 
ous excitement, while he affected to laugh at the 
folly he uttered, “that the great Poughkeepsie 
fortune-teller foretold in the presence of my grand- 
mother, that a Patroon of Kinderhook should in- 
termarry with a witch. So, should I see la belle ' 


in the position you name, it would not greatly 
alarm me.” 

“ The prophecy was fulfilled at the wedding 
of thy father ! ” muttered Myndert, who, notwith- 
standing the outward levity with which he treami 
the subject, was not entirely free from secret rev- 
erence for the provincial soothsayers, some of 
whom continued in high repute, even to the close 
of the last century. “ His son would not else 
have been so clever a youth ! — But here is Cap- 
tain Ludlow looking at the ocean as if he expected 
to see my niece rise out of the water in the shape 
of a mermaid.” 

The commander of the Coquette pointed to 
the object which attracted his gaze, and which, 
appearing as it did at that moment, was certainly 
not of a nature to lessen the faith of either of his 
companions in supernatural agencies. 

It has been said that the wind was dry and 
the air misty, or rather so pregnant with a thin 
haze, as to give it the appearance of a dull, smoky 
light. In such a state of the weather, the eye, 
more especially of one placed on an elevation, is 
unable to distinguish what is termed the visible 
horizon at sea. The two elements become so 
blended, that our organs cannot tell where the 
water ends, or where the void of the heavens 
commences. It is a consequence of this indis- 
tinctness that any object seen beyond the appar- 
ent boundary of water, has the appearance of 
floating in the air. It is rare for the organs of a 
landsman to penetrate beyond the apparent limits 
of the sea, when the atmosphere exhibits this 
peculiarity, though the practised eye of a mariner 
often detects vessels which are hid from others, 
merely because theyare not sought in the proper 
place. The deception may also be aided by a 
slight degree of refraction. 

“ Here,” said Ludlow, pointing in a line that 
would have struck the water some two or three 
leagues in the offing. “ First bring the chimney 
of yonder low building on the plain in a range 
with the dead oak on the shore, and then raise j 
your eyes slowly, till they strike a sail.” 

“ That ship is navigating the heavens ! ” ex- 
claimed Myndert. “ Thy grandmother was a sen- 
sible woman, patroon ; she was a cousin of my 
pious progenitor, and there is no knowing what 
two clever old ladies in their time may have heard 
and seen, when such sights as this are beheld 
in our own ! ” 

“ I am as little disposed as another to put 
faith in incredible things,” gravely returned Oloff 
Y an Staats ; “ and yet, if required to give my 
testimony, I should be reluctant to say that yon- 
der vessel is not floating in the heavens ! ” 


THE CHASE. 


89 


“You might not give it to that effect in 
safety,” said Ludlow. “ It is no other than a half- 
rigged brigantine on a taut bowline, though she 
! bears no great show of canvas. — Mr. Van Bever- 
out, her majesty’s cruiser is about to put to sea.” 

Myndert heard this declaration in visible dis- 
i satisfaction. He spoke of the virtue of patience, 

I and of the comforts of the solid ground; but 
when he found the intention of the queen’s ser- 
vant was not to be shaken, he reluctantly pro- 
; fessed an intention of repeating the personal ex- 
I periment of the preceding day. Accordingly, 
within half an hour the whole party were on the 
banks of the Shrewsbury, and about to embark in 
[ the barge of the Coquette. 

“ Adieu, Monsieur Francis,” said the aider- 
man, nodding his head to the ancient valet, who 
stood with a disconsolate air on the shore. “ Have 
a care of the movables in la Cour des Fees ; we 
have further use for them.” 

“Mais, Monsieur Beevre, mon devoir et ma 
foi, suppose la mer was plus agreable, mon desir 
shall be to suivre Mam’selle Alida. Jamais per- 
sonne de la famille Barb6rie love de sea ; mais, 
monsieur, comment faire ? I shall die sur la mer 
de douleur ; and I shall die d’ennui, to rester ici 
bien stir ! ” 

“ Come, then, faithful Yransois,” said Ludlow. 
“ You shall follow your young mistress ; and per- 
haps on further trial you may be disposed to 
think the lives of us seamen more tolerable than 
you had believed.” 

After an eloquent expression of countenance, 
in which the secretly amused though grave-look- 
ing boat’s crew thought the old man was about 
to give a specimen of his powers of anticipation, 
the affectionate domestic entered the barge. Lud- 
low felt for his distress, and encouraged him by 
a look of approbation. The language of kindness 
does not always need a tongue; and the con- 
science of the valet smote him with the idea that 
he might have expressed himself too strongly con- 
cerning a profession to which the other had de- 
voted life and hopes. 

“La mer, Monsieur le Capitaine,” he said, 
with an acknowledging reverence, “est un vaste 
theatre de la gloire. YoiU Messieurs de Tour- 
ville et Dougay Trouin; ce sont deshommes vrai- 
ment remarquables ! mais, monsieur, quant h tout 
la famille de Barberie, we have toujours un senti- 
ment plus favorable pour la terre.” 

“ I wish your whimsical jade of a mistress, 
Master Francis, had found the same sentiment,” 
dryly observed Myndert ; “ for, let me tell you, this 
cruising about in a suspicious vessel is as little 
creditable to her judgment as — cheer up, patroon ; 


the girl is only putting thy metal to the trial, and 
the sea-air will do no damage to her complexion 
or her pocket. — A little predilection for salt-wa- 
ter must raise the girl in your estimation, Captain 
Ludlow ? ” 

“ If the predilection goes no further than the 
element, sir,” was the caustic answer. “ But, de- 
luded or not, erring or deceived, Alida Barberie 
is not to be deserted, the victim of a villain’s arts. 
I did love your niece, Mr. Van Beverout, and — 
pull with a will, men ; fellows, are you sleeping on 
the oars ? ” 

The sudden manner in which the young man 
interrupted himself, and the depth of tone in 
which he spoke to the boat’s crew, put an end to 
the discourse. It was apparent that he wished 
to say no more, and that he even regretted the 
weakness which had induced him to say so much. 
The remainder of the distance between the shore 
and the ship was passed in silence. 

When Queen Anne’s cruiser was seen doub- 
ling Sandy Hook, past meridian on the 6th June 
(sea-time) in the year 17 — , the wind, as stated 
in an ancient journal, which was kept by one of 
the midshipmen, and is still in existence, was light, 
steady at south and by west-half-west. It ap- 
pears, by the same document, that the vessel took 
her departure at seven o’clock, p. m., the point of 
Sandy Hook, bearing west-half-south, distant 
three leagues. On the same page which contains 
these particulars, it is observed, under the head 
of remarks: ‘*Ship under starboard steering 
sails, forward and aft, making six knots. A sus- 
picious half-rigged brigantine lying-to in the east- 
ern board, under her mainsail, with fore-topsail 
to the mast ; light and lofty sails and jib loose ; 
foresail in the brails. Her starboard steering 
sail-booms appear to be rigged out, and the gear 
rove, ready for a run. This vessel is supposed to be 
the celebrated hermaphrodite Water-Witch, com- 
manded by the notorious ‘ Skimmer of the Seas,’ 
and the same fellow who gave us so queer a slip 
yesterday. The Lord send us a capful of wind, 
and we’ll try his heels, before morning ! — Passen- 
gers, Alderman Van Beverout, of the second ward 
of the city of New York, in her majesty’s province 
of the same name ; Oloff Van Staats, Esq., com- 
monly called the Patroon of Kinderhook, of the 
same colony ; and a qualmish-looking old chap, in a 
sort of marine’s jacket, who answers when hailed 
as Francis. A rum set taken altogether, though 
they seem to suit the captain’s fancy. Mem. — 
Each lipper of a wave works like tartar-emetic on 
the lad in marine gear.” 

As no description of ours can give a more 
graphic account of the position of the two vessels 


90 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


in question, at the time named, than that which 
is contained in the foregoing extract, we shall 
take up the narrative at that moment, which the 
reader will see must, in the fortieth degree of lati- 
tude, and in the month of June, have been shortly 
after the close of the day. 

The young votary of Neptune, whose opinions 
have just been quoted, had indeed presumed on 
his knowledge of the localities, in affirming the 
distance and position of the cape, since the low 
sandy point was no longer visible from the deck. 
The sun had set, as seen from the vessel, precise- 
ly in the mouth of the Raritan ; and the shadows 
from Navesink, or Neversink, as the hills are 
vulgarly called, were thrown far upon the sea. 
In short, the night was gathering round the mari- 
ners, with every appearance of settled and mild 
weather, but of a darkness deeper than is com- 
mon on the ocean. Under such circumstances, 
the great object was to keep on the track of the 
chase, during the time when she must necessarily 
be hid from their sight. 

Ludlow walked into the lee-gangway of his 
ship, and, leaning with his elbow on the empty 
hammock-cloths, he gazed long in silence at the 
object of his pursuit. The Water-Witch was ly- 
ing in the quarter of the horizon most favorable 
to being seen. The twilight, which still fell out 
of the heavens, was without glare in that direc- 
tion ; and, for the first time that day, he saw her 
in her true proportions. The admiration of a sea- 
man was blended with the other sensations of the 
young man. The brigantine lay in the position 
that exhibited her exquisitely-moulded hull and 
rakish rig to the most advantage. The head, hav- 
ing come to the wind, was turned toward her 
pursuer ; and as the bows rose on some swell that 
was heavier than common, Ludlow saw, or fancied 
he saw, the mysterious image still perched on her 
cutwater, holding the book to the curious, and 
ever pointing with its finger across the waste of 
water.' A movement of the hammock - cloths 
caused the young sailor to bend his head aside, 
and he then saw that the master had drawn as 
near his person as discipline would warrant. 
Ludlow had a great respect for the professional 
attainments that his inferior unquestionably pos- 
sessed ; and he was not without some considera- 
tion for the chances of a fortune, which had not 
done much to reward the privations and the ser- 
vices of a seaman old enough to be his father. 
The recollection of these facts always disposed 
him to be indulgent to a man who had little be- 
yond his seaman-like character and long experi- 
ence to recommend him. 

“We are likely to have a thick night, Master 


Trysail,” said the young captain, without deeming 
it necessary to change his look, “ and we may 
yet be brought on a bowline, before yonder inso- 
lent is overhauled.” 

The master smiled, like one who knew more 
than he expressed, and gravely shook his head. 

“We may have many pulls on our bowlines, 
and some squaring of yards, too, before the Co- 
quette ” (the figure-head of the sloop-of-war was 
also a female) “ gets near enough to the dark-faced 
woman, under the bowsprit of the brigantine, to 
whisper her mind. You and I have been nigh 
enough to see the white of her eyes, and to count 
the teeth she shows, in that cunning grin of hers 
— and what good has come of our visit ? Iam 
but a subordinate, Captain Ludlow, and I know 
my duty too well not to be silent in a squall, and 
I hope too well not to know how to speak when 
my commander wishes the opinions of his officers 
at a council ; and therefore mine, just now, is per- 
haps different from that of some others in this \ 
ship, that I will not name, who are good men, too, 
though none of the oldest.” 

“And what is thy opinion, Trysail? The 
ship is doing well, and she carries her canvas 
bravely.” 

“The ship behaves like a well-bred young 
woman in the presence of the queen ; modest, but 
stately — but of what use is canvas, in a chase 
where witchcraft breeds squalls and shortens sail 
in one vessel, while it gives flying kites to another ? 

If her majesty, God bless her ! should be ever per- 
suaded to do so silly a thing as to give old Tom 
Trysail a ship, and the said ship lay, just here- 
away, where the Coquette is now getting along so 
cleverly, why then, as in duty bound, I know very 
well what her commander would do — ” 

“ Which would be — ” 

“ To, in all studding-sails, and bring the ves- 
sel on the wind.” 

“ That would be to carry you to the south- 
ward, while the chase lies here in the eastern 
board ! ” 

“ Who can say how long she will lie there ? 
They told us, in York, that there was a French- 
man, of our burden and metal, rummaging about 
among the fishermen, lower down on the coast. 
Now, sir, no man knows that the war is half over 
better than myself, for not a ha’penny of prize- 
money has warmed my pocket these three years ; 
but, as I was saying, if a Frenchman will come 
off his ground, and will run his ship into troubled 
water, why— whose fault is it but his own ? A 
pretty affair might be made out of such a mistake, 
Captain Ludlow ; whereas running after yonder 
brigantine is flapping out the queen’s canvas for 


THE CAPTAIN AND HIS SUBORDINATE. 


91 


nothing. The vessel’s bottom will want new 
sheathing in my opinion, before you catch him.” 

“ I know not, Trysail,” returned his captain, 
glancing an eye aloft ; “ every thing draws, and 
the ship never went along with less trouble to her- 
self. We shall not know which has the longest 
legs, till the trial is made.” 

“ You may judge of the rogue’s speed by his 
impudence. There he lies, waiting for us, like a 
line-of-battle ship lying-to for an enemy to come 
down. Though a man of some experience in my 
way, I have never seen a lord’s son more sure of 
promotion than that same brigantine seems to be 
of his heels ! If this old Frenchman goes on with 
his faces much longer, he will turn himself inside- 
out, and then we shall get an honest look at him, 
for these fellows never carry their true characters 
above-board, like a fair-dealing Englishman. — 
Well, sir, as I was remarking, yon rover, if rover 
he be, has more faith in his canvas than in the 
Church. I make no doubt, Captain Ludlow, that 
the brigantine went through the inlet while we 
were handing our topsails yesterday; for I am 
none of those who are in a hurry to give credit 
to any will-o’-the-wisp tale; besides which, I 
sounded the passage with my own hands, and 
know the thing to be possible, with the wind blow- 
ing heavy over the taffrail ; still, sir, human na- 
ture is human nature, and what is the oldest sea- 
man, after all, but a man ? And so, to conclude, 
I would rather any day chase a Frenchman, whose 
disposition is known to me, than have the credit 
of making traverses, for eight-and-forty hours, in 
the wake of one of these fliers, with little hope 
of getting him within hail.” 

“ You forget, Master Trysail, that I have been 
aboard the chase, and know something of his build 
and character.” 

“ They say as much aboard here,” returned 
the old thr, drawing nearer to the person of his 
captain, under an impulse of strong curiosity; 
“ though none presume to be acquainted with the 
particulars. I am not one of those who ask im- 
pertinent questions, more especially under her 
majesty’s pennant ; for the worst enemy I have 
will not say I am very womanish. One would 
think, however, that there was neat work on board 
a craft that is so prettily moulded about her 
water-lines.” 

“ She is perfect as to construction, and ad- 
mirable in gear.” 

“ I thought as much, by instinct ! Her com- 
mander need not, however, be any the more sure 
of keeping her off the rocks, on that account. 
The prettiest young woman in our parish was 
wrecked, as one might say, on the shoals of her 


own good looks, having cruised once too often 
in the company of the squire’s son. A comely 
wench she was, though she luffed athwart all her 
old companions, when the young lord of the 
manor fell into her wake. Well, she did bravely 
enough, sir, as long as she could carry her flying 
kites, and make a fair wind of it ; but, when the 
squall of which I spoke overtook her, what could 
she do but keep away before it ? — and, as others 
who are snugger in their morals hove-to, as it 
were, under the storm-sails of religion and such 
matters as they had picked up in the catechism, 
she drifted to leeward of all honest society ! A 
neatly-built and clean-heeled hussy was that girl ; 
and I am not certain, by any means, that Mrs. 
Trysail would this day call herself the lady of a 
queen’s officer, had the other known how to carry 
sail in the company of her betters.” 

The worthy master drew a long breath, which 
possibly was a nautical sigh, but which certainly 
had more of the north wind than of the zephyr 
in its breathing ; and he had recourse to the little 
box of iron, whence he usually drew consolation. 

“I have heard of this accident before,” re- 
turned Ludlow, who had sailed as a midshipman 
in the same vessel with, and indeed as a subordi- 
nate to, his present inferior. “ But, from all ac- 
counts, you have little reason to regret the change, 
as I hear the best character of your present 
worthy partner.” 

“No doubt, sir, no doubt. I defy any man 
in the ship to say that I am a backbiter, even 
against my wife, with whom I have a sort of law- 
ful right to deal candidly. I make no complaints, 
and am a happy man at sea, and I piously hope 
Mrs. Trysail knows how to submit to her duty at 
home. — I suppose you see, sir, that the chase 
has hauled his yards, and is getting his fore-tack 
aboard ? ” Ludlow, whose eye did not often turn 
from the brigantine, nodded assent ; and the mas- 
ter, having satisfied himself, by actual inspection, 
that every sail in the Coquette did its duty, con- 
tinued : “The night is coming on thick, and we 
shall have occasion for all our eyes to keep the 
rogue in view, when he begins to change his bear- 
ings — but, as I was sayihg, if the commander of 
yonder half-rig is too vain of her good looks, he 
may yet wreck her in his pride ! The rogue has 
a desperate character as a smuggler, though, for 
my own part, I cannot say that I look on such 
men with as unfavorable an eye as some others. 
This business of trade seems to be a sort of chase 
between one man’s wits and another man’s wits, 
and the dullest goer must be content to fall to 
leeward. When it comes to be a question of 
revenue, why, he who goes free is lucky, and he 


92 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


who is caught a prize. I have known a flag- 
officer look the other way, Captain Ludlow, when 
his own effects were passing duty-free ; and, as to 
your admiral’s lady, she is a great patroness of 
the contraband. I do not deny, sir, that a smug- 
gler must be caught, and, when caught, con- 
demned, after which there must be a fair distri- 
bution among the captors ; but all that I mean 
to say is, that there are worse men in the world 
than your British smuggler — such, for instance, as 
your Frenchman, your Dutchman, or your Don.” 

“ These are heterodox opinions for a queen’s 
servant,” said Ludlow, as much inclined to smile 
as to frown. 

“ I hope I know my duty too well to preach 
them to the ship’s company, but a man may say 
that, in a philosophical way, before his captain, 
that he would not let run into a midshipman’s ear. 
Though no lawyer, I know what is meant by swear- 
ing a witness to the truth and nothing but the 
truth. I wish the queen got the last, God bless 
her ! several worn-out ships would then be broken 
up, and better vessels sent to sea in their places. 
But, sir, speaking in a religious point of view, what 
is the difference between passing in a trunk of 
finery, with a duchess’s name on the brass plate, 
or in passing in gin enough to fill a cutter’s hold ? ” 

“ One would think a man of your years, Mr. 
Trysail, would seethe difference between robbing 
the revenue of a guinea and robbing it of a thou- 
sand pounds.” 

“Which is just the difference between retail 
and wholesale — and that is no trifle, I admit, Cap- 
tain Ludlow, in a commercial country, especially 
in genteel life. Still, sir, revenue is the country’s 
right, and therefore I allow a smuggler to be a 
bad man, only not so bad as those I have just 
named, particularly your Dutchman ! The queen 
is right to make those rogues lower their flags to 
her in the narrow seas, which are her lawful prop- 
erty ; because England, being a wealthy island, 
and Holland no more than a bit of bog turned up 
to dry, it is reasonable that we should have the 
command afloat. Ho, sir, though none of your out- 
criers against a man because he has had bad luck 
in a chase with a revenue-cutter, I hope I know 
what the natural rights of an Englishman are. 
We must be masters, here, Captain Ludlow, will- 
ye-nill-ye, and look to the main chances of trade 
and manufactures ! ” 

“ I had not thought you so accomplished a 
statesman, Master Trysail ! ” 

“ Though a poor man’s son, Captain Ludlow, 

I am a freeborn Briton, and my education has not 
been entirely overlooked. I hope I know some- 
thing of the constitution, as well as my betters. 


I Justice and honor being an Englishman’s mottoes, 
we must look manfully to the main chance. Wc 
are none of your flighty talkers, but a reasoning 
people, and there is no want of deep thinkers on 
the little island ; and therefore, sir, taking all to- 
gether, why England must stick up for her rights ! 
Here is your Dutchman, for instance, a ravenous 
cormorant ; a fellow with a throat wide enough 
to swallow all the gold of the Great Mogul, if he 
could get at it ; and yet a vagabond who has not 
even a fair footing on the earth, if the truth must 
be spoken ! Well, sir, shall England give up her 
rights to a nation of such blackguards ? Ho, sir, 
our venerable constitution and mother Church it- 
self forbid, and therefore, I say, dam’me, lay them 
aboard, if they refuse us any of our natural rights, 
or show a wish to bring us down to their own 
dirty level ! ” 

“ Reasoned like a countryman of Hewton, and 
with an eloquence that would do credit to Cicero ! 
I shall endeavor to digest your ideas at my lei- 
sure, since they are much too solid food to be dis- 
posed of in a minute. At present we will look 
to the chase, for I see, by the aid of my glass, 
that he has set his studding-sails, and is begin- 
ning to draw ahead.” 

This remark closed the dialogue between the 
captain and his subordinate. The latter quitted 
the gangway with that secret and pleasurable 
sensation which communicates itself to all who 
have reason to think they have delivered them- 
selves creditably of a train of profound thought. 

It was, in truth, time to lend every faculty 
to the movements of the brigantine ; for there was 
great reason to apprehend that, by changing her 
direction in the darkness, she might elude them. 
The night was fast closing on the Coquette, and at 
each moment the horizon narrowed around her, 
so that it was only at uncertain intervals the men 
aloft could distinguish the position of the chase. 
While the two vessels were thus situated, Ludlow 
joined his guests on the quarter-deck. 

“ A wise man will trust to his wits, what can- 
not be done by force,” said the alderman. “ I do 
not pretend to be much of a mariner, Captain 
Ludlow, though I once spent a week in London, 
and I have crossed the ocean seven times to Rot- 
terdam. We did little in our passages, by striving 
to force Hature. When the nights came in dark, 
as at present, the honest schippers were content 
to wait for better times ; by which means we 
were sure not to miss our road, and of finally ar- 
riving at the destined port in safety.” 

“You saw that the brigantine was opening his 
canvas, when last seen ; and he that would move 
fast must have recourse to his sails.” 


A SINGULAR INCIDENT. 


93 


“ One never knows what may be brewing, up 
there in the heavens, when the eye cannot see the 
color of a cloud. I have little knowledge of the 
character of the ‘ Skimmer of the Seas,’ beyond 
that which common fame gives him ; but, in the 
poor judgment of a landsman, we should do better 
by showing lanterns in different parts of the ship, 
lest some homeward-bound vessel do us an injury, 
and waiting until the morning for further move- 
ments.” 

“We are spared the trouble, for, look, the in- 
solent has set a light himself, as if to invite us to 
follow ! This temerity exceeds belief! To dare 
to trifle thus with one of the swiftest cruisers in 
the English fleet ! See that every thing draws, 
gentlemen, and take a pull at all the sheets. 
Hail the tops, sir, and make sure that every thing 
is home.” 

The order was succeeded by the voice of the 
[ officer of the watch, who inquired, as directed, if 
| each sail was distended to the utmost. Force 
was applied to some of the ropes, and then a 
general quiet succeeded to the momentary ac- 
tivity. 

The brigantine had indeed showed a light, as 
1 if in mockery of the attempt of the royal cruiser. 

Though secretly stung by this open contempt of 
! their speed, the officers of the Coquette found 
themselves relieved from a painful and anxious 
| duty. Before this beacon was seen, they were 
I obliged to exert their senses to the utmost, in 
order to get occasional glimpses of the position 
of the chase; while they now steered in confi- 
dence for the brilliant little spot that was gently 
rising and falling with the waves. 

“ I think we near him,” half whispered the 
eager captain ; “ see, there is some design visible 
on the sides of the lantern. Hold ! — Ah ! ’tis the 
face of a woman, as I live ! ” 

“ The men of the yawl report that the rover 
shows this symbol in many parts of his vessel, 
and we know he had the impudence to set it yes- 
terday in our presence, even on his ensign.” 

“True — true; take you the glass, Mr. Luff, 
and tell me if there be not a woman’s face sketched 
in front of that light — we certainly near him fast 
— let there be silence, fore and aft the ship. The 
rogues mistake our bearings ! ” 

“A saucy-looking jade, as one might wish to 
see ! ” returned the lieutenant. “ Her impudent 
laugh is visible to the naked eye.” 

“ See all clear for laying him aboard ! Get a 
party to throw on his decks, sir ! I will lead them 
myself.” 

These orders were given in an under-tone, and 
rapidly. They were promptly obeyed. In the 


mean time, the Coquette continued to glide gently 
ahead, her sails thickening with the dew, and 
every breath of the heavy air acting with in- 
creased power on their surfaces. The boarders 
were stationed, orders were given for the most 
profound silence, and, as the ship drew nearer to 
the light, even the officers were commanded not 
to stir. Ludlow stationed himself in the mizzen 
channels, to con the ship; and his directions 
were repeated to the quartermaster in a loud 
whisper. 

“ The night is so dark, we are certainly un- 
seen ! ” observed the young man to his second in , 
command, who stood at his elbow. “ They have 
unaccountably mistaken our position. Observe 
how the face of the painting becomes more dis- 
tinct ; one can see even the curls of the hair. — 
Luff, sir, luff — we will run him aboard on his 
weather-quarter.” 

“ The fool must be lying-to ! ” returned the 
lieutenant. “ Even your witches fail of common- 
sense at times ! Do you see which way he has 
his head, sir ? ” 

“ I see nothing but the light. It is so dark 
that our own sails are scarcely visible; yet I 
think here are his yards, a little forward of our 
lee beam.” 

“ ’Tis our own lower boom. I got it out in 
readiness for the other tack, in case the knave 
should wear. Are we not running too full ? ” 

“ Luff you may, a little — luff, or we shall crush 
him ! ” 

As this order was given, Ludlow passed swift- 
ly forward. He found the boarders ready for a 
spring, and he rapidly gave his orders. The men 
were told to carry the brigantine at every hazard, 
but not to offer violence, unless serious resistance 
was made. They were thrice enjoined not to en- 
ter the cabins, and the young man expressed a 
generous wish that, in every case, the “ Skimmer 
of the Seas ” might be taken alive. By the time 
these directions were given, the light was so near 
that the malign countenance of the sea-green lady 
was seen in every lineament. Ludlow looked in 
vain for the spars, in order to ascertain in which 
direction the head of the brigantine lay; but, 
trusting to luck, he saw that the decisive moment 
was come. 

“ Starboard, and run him aboard ! — Away 
there, you boarders, away ! Heave with your 
grapnels ; heave, men, with a long swing, heave ! 

— Meet her, with the helm — hard down — meet 
her — steady ! ” — was shouted in a clear, full, and 
steady voice, that seemed to deepen at each man- 
date which issued from the lips of the young cap- 
tain. 


94 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


The boarders cheered heartily, and leaped into 
the rigging. The Coquette readily and rapidly 
yielded to the power of her rudder. First inclin- 
ing to the light, and then sweeping up toward the 
wind again, in another instant she was close upon 
the chase. The irons were thrown, the men once 
more shouted, and all on board held their breaths 
in expectation of the crash of the meeting hulls. 
At that moment of high excitement, the woman’s 
face rose a short distance in the air, seemed to 
smile in derision of their attempt, and suddenly 
disappeared. The ship passed steadily ahead, 
while no noise but the sullen wash of the waters 
was audible. The boarding irons were heard fall- 
ing heavily into the sea ; and the Coquette rapid- 
ly overran the spot where the light had been 
seen, without sustaining any shock. Though the 
clouds lifted a little, and the eye might embrace 
a circuit of a few hundred feet, there certainly 
was nothing to be seen within its range, but the 
unquiet element, and the stately cruiser of Queen 
Anne floating on its bosom. . 

Though its effects were different on the differ- 
ently-constituted minds of those who witnessed 
the singular incident, the disappointment was 
general. The common impression was certainly 
unfavorable to the earthly character of the brig- 
antine ; and, when opinions of this nature once 
get possession of the ignorant, they are not easily 
removed. Even Trysail, though experienced in 
the arts of those who trifle with the revenue- 
laws, was much inclined to believe that this was 
no vulgar case of floating lights or false beacons, 
but a manifestation that others, besides those 
who had been regularly trained to the sea, were 
occasionally to be found on the waters. If Cap- 
tain Ludlow thought differently, he saw no suffi- 
cient reason to enter into an explanation with 
those who were bound silently to obey. He 
paced the quarter-deck for many minutes ; then 
issued his orders to the equally-disappointed lieu- 
tenants. The light canvas of the Coquette was 
taken in, the studding-sail-gear unrove, and the 
booms secured. The ship was brought to the 
wind, and, her courses having been hauled up, the 
foretop-sail was thrown to the mast. In this 
position the cruiser lay, waiting for the morning 
light, in order to give greater certainty to her 
movements. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ I, John Turner, 

Am master and owner 
Of a high-decked schooner, 

That’s bound to Oarlina— ” 
etc., etc., etc., etc. 

COASTIXG-SONG. 

It is not necessary to say, with how much in- 
terest Alderman Van Beverout, and his friend 
the patroon, witnessed all the proceedings on 
board the Coquette. Something very like an ex- 
clamation of pleasure escaped the former, when 
it was known that the ship had missed the brig- 
antine, and that there was now little probability 
of overtaking her that night. 

“Of what use is it to chase your fire-flies 
about the ocean, patroon ? ” muttered the aider- 
man, in the ear of Oloff Van Staats. “ I have no 
further knowledge of this Skimmer of the Seas, 
than is decent in the principal of a. commercial 
house — but reputation is like a sky-rocket, that 
may be seen from afar ! Her majesty has no ship 
that can overtake the free-trader, and why fatigue 
the innocent vessel for nothing ? ” 

“ Captain Ludlow has other desires than the 
mere capture of the brigantine,” returned the 
laconic and sententious patroon. “The opinion 
that Alida de Barbdrie is in her, has great influ- 
ence with that gentleman.” 

“ This is strange apathy, Mr. Yan Staats, in 
one who is as good as engaged to my niece, if he 
be not actually married. Alida Barberie has 
great influence with that gentleman ! And pray, 
with whom that knows her, has she not influ- 
ence ? ” 

“ The sentiment in favor of the young lady, 
in general, is favorable.” 

“ Sentiment and favors ! Am I to understand, 
sir, by this coolness, that our bargain is broken ? 
— that the two fortunes are not to be brought 
together, and that the lady is not to be your 
wife ? ” 

“ Harkee, Mr. Yan Beverout ; one who is sav- 
ing of his income and sparing of his words can 
have no pressing necessity for the money of 
others ; and, on occasion, he may afford to speak 
plainly. Your n\ece has shown so decided a pref- 
erence for another that it has materially lessened 
the liveliness of my regard.” 

“ It were a pity that so much animation should 
fail of its object ! It would be a sort of stoppage 
in the affairs of Cupid ! Men should deal can- 
didly in all business transactions, Mr. Yan Staats ; 
and you will permit me to ask, as for a final 
settlement, if your mind is changed in regard 


VAN BEVEROUT’S PROPHECY. 


95 


to the daughter of old Etienne de Barberie, or 
not ? ” 

u Not changed, but quite decided,” returned 
the young patroon. “ I cannot say that I wish 
the successor of my mother to have seen so much 
of the world. We are a family that is content 
with our situation, and new customs would de- 
range my household.” 

“ I am no wizard, sir ; but, for the benefit of 
a son of my old friend Stephanus Van Staats, I 
will venture, for once, on a prophecy. You will 
marry, Mr. Van Staats — yes, marry — and you will 
wive, sir, with — prudence prevents me from say- 
ing with whom you will wive ; but you may ac- 
count yourself a lucky man if it be not with one 
who will cause you to forget house and home, 
lands and friends, manors and rents, and in short 
all the solid comforts of life. It would not sur- 
prise me to hear that the prediction of the Pough- 
keepsie fortune-teller should be fulfilled ! ” 

“And what is your real opinion, Alderman 
Van Beverout, of the different mysterious events 
we have witnessed ? ” demanded the patroon, in 
a manner to prove that the interest he took in the 
subject completely smothered any displeasure he 
might otherwise have felt at so harsh a prophecy. 
“ This sea-green lady is no common woman ? ” 

“Sea-green and sky-blue!” interrupted the 
impatient burgher. “ The hussy is but too com- 
mon, sir; and there is the calamity. Had she 
been satisfied with transacting her concerns in a 
snug and reasonable manner, and to have gone 
upon the high-seas again, we should have had 
none of this foolery to disturb accounts which 
ought to have been considered settled. Mr. Van 
Staats, will you allow me to ask a few direct ques- 
tions, if you can find leisure for their answer ? ” 

The patroon nodded his head in the affirma- 
tive. 

“ What do you suppose, sir, to have become 
of my niece ? ” 

“Eloped.” 

“ And with whom ? ” 

Van Staats of Kinderhook stretched an arm 
toward the open ocean, and again nodded. The 
alderman mused a moment ; then he chuckled, as 
if some amusing idea had got the better of his ill- 
humor. 

“ Come, come, patroon,” he said in his wonted 
amicable tone, when addressing the lord of a 
hundred thousand acres, “ this business is like a 
complicated account, a little difficult till one gets 
acquainted with the books, when all becomes 
plain as your hand. There were referees in the 
settlement of the estate of Kobus Van Klinclc, 
whom I will not name; but what between the 


handwriting of the old grocer, and some inaccu- 
racy in the figures, they had but a blind time of it 
until they discovered which way the balance ought 
to come; then by working backward and for- 
ward, which is the true spirit of your just referee, 
they got all straight in the end. Kobus was not 
very lucid in his statements, and he was a little 
apt to be careless of ink. His ledger might be 
called a book of the black art ; for it was little 
else than fly-tracks and blots, though the last were 
found of great assistance in rendering the state- 
ments satisfactory. By calling three of the biggest 
of them sugar-hogsheads, a very fair balance was 
struck between him and a peddling Yankee who 
was breeding trouble for the estate ; and I chal- 
lenge, even at this distant day, when all near inter- 
ests in the results may be said to sleep, any respon- 
sible man to say that they did not look as much 
like those articles as any thing else. Something 
they must have been, and, as Kobus dealt largely 
in sugar, there was also a strong moral probability 
that they were the said hogsheads. Come, come, 
patroon ; we shall have the jade back again in 
proper time. Thy ardor gets the better of rea- 
son ; but this is the way with true love, which is 
none the worse for a little delay. Alida is not 
one to balk thy merriment ; these Norman wenches 
are not heavy of foot at a dance, or apt to go to 
sleep when the fiddles are stirring ! ” 

With this consolation, Alderman Van Bever- 
out saw fit to close the dialogue, for the moment. 
How far he succeeded in bringing back the mind 
of the patroon to its allegiance, the result must 
show ; though we shall take this occasion to ob- 
serve again that the young proprietor found a 
satisfaction in the excitement of the present scene, 
that, in the course of a short and little diversified 
life, he had never before experienced. 

While others slept, Ludlow passed most of 
the night on deck. He laid himself down in the 
hammock-cloths, for an hour or two, as the night 
wore on ; though the wind did not sigh through 
the rigging louder than common, without arous- 
ing him from his slumbers. At each low call of 
the officer of the watch to the crew, his head was 
raised to glance around the narrow horizon ; and 
the ship never rolled heavily, without causing him 
to awake. He believed that the brigantine was 
near, and, for the first watch, he was not without 
expectation that the two vessels might unexpect- 
edly meet in the obscurity. When this hope 
failed, the young seaman had recourse to artifice 
in his turn, in order to entrap one who appeared 
so practised and so expert in the devices of the 
sea. 

About midnight, when the watches were 


96 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


changed, and the whole crew, with the exception 
of the idlers, were on deck, orders were given to 
hoist out the boats. This operation, one of ex- 
ceeding toil and difficulty in lightly-manned ships, 
was soon performed on board the queen’s cruiser, 
by the aid of yard and stay-tackles, to which the 
force of a hundred seamen was applied. When 
four of these little attendants on the ship were in 
the water, they were entered by their crews, pre- 
pared for service. Officers on whom Ludlow could 
rely, were put in command of the three smallest, 
while he took charge of the fourth in person. 
When all were ready, and each inferior had re- 
ceived his special instructions, they quitted the 
side of the vessel, pulling off in diverging lines in 
the gloom of the ocean. The boat of Ludlow had 
not gone fifty fathoms before he was perfectly con- 
scious of the inutility of a chase ; for the obscuri- 
ty of the night was so great as to render the spars 
of his own ship nearly indistinct even at that 
short distance. After pulling by compass some 
ten or fiften minutes, in a direction that carried 
him to windward of the Coquette, the young man 
commanded the crew to cease rowing, and pre- 
pared himself to await patiently for the result of 
his undertaking. 

There was nothing to vary the monotony of 
such a scene for an hour, but the regular rolling 
of a sea that was but little agitated, a few occa- 
sional strokes of the oars that were given in or- 
der to keep the barge in its place, or the heavy 
breathing of some smaller fish of the cetaceous 
kind, as it rose to the surface to inhale the at- 
mosphere. In no quarter of the heavens was 
any thing visible ; not even a star was peeping 
out to cheer the solitude and silence of that 
solitary place. The men where nodding on the 
thwarts, and our young sailor was about to re- 
linquish his design as fruitless, when suddenly a 
noise was heard at no great distance from the 
spot where they lay. It was one of those sounds 
which would have been inexplicable to any but a 
seaman, but which conveyed a meaning to the 
ears of Ludlow, as plain as that which could be 
imparted by speech to a landsman. A moaning 
creak was followed by the low rumbling of a rope, 
as it rubbed onsomehard or distended substance ; 
then succeeded the heavy flap of canvas, that, 
yielding first to a powerful impulse, was suddenly 
checked. 

“ Hear ye that ? ” exclaimed Ludlow, a little 
above a whisper. “ ’Tis the brigantine gybing 
his mainboom ! Give way, men — see all ready to 
lay him aboard ! ” 

The crew started from their slumbers; the 
plash of oars was heard, and in the succeeding 


moment the sails of a vessel gliding through the 
obscurity, nearly across their course, were visi- 
ble. 

“Now spring to your oars, men! ” continued 
Ludlow, with the eagerness of one engaged in 
chase. “We have him to advantage, and he is 
ours! — a long pull and a strong pull— steadily, 
boys, and together ! ” 

The practised crew did their duty. It seemed 
but a moment before they were close upon the 
chase. 

“ Another stroke of the oars and she is ours !” 
cried Ludlow. “ Grapple ! — to your arms ! — 
away, boarders, away ! ” 

These orders came on the ears of the men with 
the effect of martial blasts. The crew shouted, 
the clashing of arms was heard, and the tramp 
of feet on the deck of the vessel announced the 
success of the enterprise. A minute of extreme 
activity and of noisy confusion followed. The 
cheers of the boarders had been heard at a dis- 
tance ; and rockets shot into the air from the 
other boats, whose crews answered the shouts 
with manful lungs. The whole ocean appeared in 
a momentary glow, and the roar of a gun from the 
Coquette added to the fracas. The ship set sev- 
eral lanterns, in order to indicate her position ; 
while blue-lights and other marine signals were 
constantly burning in the approaching boats, as 
if those who guided them were anxious to in- 
timidate the assailed by a show of numbers. 

In the midst of this scene of sudden awaken- 
ing from the most profound quiet, Ludlow began 
to look about him, in order to secure the principal 
objects of the capture. He had repeated his or- 
ders about entering the cabins, and concerning the 
person of the “ Skimmer of the Seas,” among the 
other instructions given to the crews of the differ- 
ent boats ; and the instant they found themselves 
in quiet possession of the prize, the young man 
dashed into the private recesses of the vessel, 
with a heart that throbbed even more violently 
than during the ardor of boarding. To cast open 
the door of a cabin beneath the high quarter- 
deck, and to descend to the level of its floor, 
were the acts of a moment. But disappoint- 
ment and mortification succeeded to triumph. A 
second glance was not necessary to show that the 
coarse work and foul smells he saw and encoun- 
tered, did not belong to the commodious and even 
elegant accommodations of the brigantine. 

“ Here is no Water-Witch ! ” he exclaimed 
aloud, under the impulse of sudden surprise. 

“ God be praised ! ” returned a voice, which 
was succeeded by a frightened face from out a state- 
room. “We were told the rover was in the off- 


ROBERT YARN’S OPINION. 


97 


ing, and thought the yells could come from noth- 
ing human ! ” 

The blood which had been rushing through 
the arteries and veins of Ludlow so tumultuous- 
ly, now crept into his cheeks, and was felt ting- 
ling at his fingers’ ends. He gave a hurried or- 
der to his men to reenter their boat, leaving ev- 
ery thing as they found it. A short conference 
between the commander of her majesty’s ship 
Coquette and the seaman of the state-room, suc- 
ceeded ; then the former hastened on deck, whence 
his passage into the barge occupied but a mo- 
ment. The boat pulled away from the fancied 
prize amid a silence that was uninterrupted by 
any other sound than that of a song, which, 
to all appearance, came from one who by this 
time had placed himself at the vessel’s helm. 
All that can be said of the music is, that it was 
suited to the words, and all that could be heard 
of the latter was a portion of a verse, if verse it 
might be called, which had exercised the talents 
yf some thoroughly nautical mind. As we de- 
pend for the accuracy of the quotation altogether 
on the fidelity of the journal of the midshipman 
already named, it is possible that some injustice 
may be done the writer ; but, according to that 
document, he sang a strain of the coasting-song 
which we have prefixed to this chapter as its 
motto. 

The papers of the coaster did not give a more 
detailed description of her character and pursuits 
than that which is contained in this verse. It is 
y.ertain that the log-book of the Coquette was far 
less explicit. The latter merely said that “ a 
coaster called the Stately Pine, John Turner, 
master, bound from New York to the Province 
of North Carolina, was boarded at one o’clock in 
the morning, all well.” But this description was 
not of a nature to satisfy the seamen of the cruis- 
>er. Those who had been actually engaged in the 
expedition were much too excited to see things 
in their true colors ; and, coupled with the two 
previous escapes of the Water-Witch, the event 
just related had no small share in confirming 
their former opinions concerning her character. 
The sailing-master was not now alone in believ- 
; ing that all pursuit of the brigantine was useless. 

But these were conclusions that the people 
of the Coquette made at their leisure, rather than 
those which suggested themselves on the instant. 
The boats, led by the flashes of light, had joined 
each other, and were rowing fast toward the ship 
before the pulses of the actors beat with sufficient 
calmness to admit of reflection ; nor was it until 
the adventurers were below, and in their ham- 
mocks, that they found suitable occasion to re- 


late what had occurred to a wondering auditory. 
Robert Yarn, the foretop-man who had felt the 
locks of the sea-green lady blowing in his face 
during the squall, took advantage of the circum- 
stance to dilate on his experiences ; and, after hav- 
ing advanced certain positions that particularly 
favored his own theories, he produced one of the 
crew of the barge who stood ready to affirm, in any 
court in Christendom, that he actually saw the 
process of changing the beautiful and graceful 
lines that distinguished the hull of the smuggler 
into the coarser and more clumsy model of the 
coaster. 

“ There are know-nothings,” continued Rob- 
ert, after he had fortified his position by the testi- 
mony in question, “ who would deny that the wa- 
ter of the ocean is blue, because the stream that 
turns the parish mill happens to be muddy. But 
your real mariner, who has lived much in foreign 
parts, is a man who understands the philosophy 
of life, and knows when to believe the truth and 
when to scorn a lie. As for a vessel changing 
her character when hard pushed in a chase, there 
are many instances ; though, having one so near 
us, there was less necessity to be roving over dis- 
tant seas in search of a case to prove it. My own 
opinion concerning this here brigantine is much 
as follows — that is to say, I do suppose there was 
once a real living hermaphrodite of her build and 
rig ; and that she might be employed in some 
such trade as this craft is thought to be in ; and 
that, in some unlucky hour, she and her people met 
with a mishap that has condemned her ever since 
to appear on this coast at stated times. She has, 
however, a natural dislike to a royal cruiser ; and, 
no doubt, the thing is now sailed by those who 
have little need of compass or observation ! All 
this being true, it is not wonderful that when the 
boat’s-crew got on her decks, they found her dif- 
ferent from what they expected. This much is 
certain, that when I lay within a boat-hook’s 
length of her spritsail-yard-arm, she was a half- 
rig, with a woman figure-head, and as pretty a 
show of gear aloft as eye ever looked upon ; while 
every thing below was as snug as a tobacco-box 
with the lid down : and here you all say that 
she is a high-decked schooner, With nothing ship- 
shape about h er ! What more is wanting to prove 
the truth of what has been stated ? — if any man 
can gainsay it, let him speak.” 

As no man did gainsay it, it is presumed that 
the reasoning of the topman gained many prose- 
lytes. It is scarcely necessary to add, how much 
of mystery and fearful interest was thrown around 
the redoubtable “ Skimmer of the Seas,” by the 
whole transaction. 


98 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


There was a different feeling on the quarter- 
deck. The two lieutenants put their heads to- 
gether and looked grave ; while one or two of the 
midshipmen, who had been in the boats, were ob- 
served to whisper with their messmates, and to 
indulge in smothered laughter. As the captain, 
however, maintained his ordinary dignified and 
authoritative mien, the merriment went no further 
and was soon repressed. 

While on this subject it may be proper to add 
that, in course of time, the Stately Pine reached 
the capes of North Carolina in safety; and that, 
having effected her passage over Edenton bar 
without striking, she ascended the river to the 
point of her destination. Here the crew soon 
began to throw out hints relative to an encounter 
of their schooner with a French cruiser. As the 
British empire, even in its most remote corner, 
was at all times alive to its nautical glory, the 
event soon became the discourse in more distant 
parts of the colony ; and, in less than six months, 
the London journals contained a very glowing ac- 
count of an engagement, in which the names of 
the Stately Pine, and of John Turner, made some 
respectable advances toward immortality. 

If Captain Ludlow ever gave any further ac- 
count of the transaction than what was stated in 
the log-book of his ship, the bienseance observed 
by the Lords of the Admiralty prevented it from 
becoming public. 

Returning from this digression, which has no 
other connection with the immediate thread of 
the narrative than that which arises from a re- 
flected interest, we shall revert to the further pro- 
ceedings on board the cruiser. 

When the Coquette hoisted in her boats, that 
portion of the crew which did not belong to the 
watch was dismissed to their hammocks, the lights 
were lowered, and tranquillity once more reigned 
in the ship. Ludlow sought his rest, and al- 
though there is reason to think that his slumbers 
were a little disturbed by dreams, he remained 
tolerably quiet in the hammock-cloths, the place 
in which it has already been said he saw fit to 
take his repose, until the morning watch was 
called. 

Although the utmost vigilance was observed 
among the officers and lookouts, during the rest 
of the night, there occurred nothing to arouse the 
crew from their usual recumbent attitudes between 
the guns. The wind continued light but steady, 
the sea smooth, and the heavens clouded, as dur- 
ing the first hours of darkness. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ The mouse ne’er shunned the cat, as they did budge 

From rascals worse than they.” 

COEIOLANtrS. 

Day dawned on the Atlantic with its pearly 
light, succeeded by the usual flushing of the skies, 
and the stately rising of the sun from out the 
water. The instant the vigilant officer who com- 
manded the morning watch, caught the first 
glimpses of the returning brightness, Ludlow was 
awakened. A finger laid on his arm was sufficient 
to arouse one who slept with the responsibility 
of his station ever present to his mind. A min- 
ute did not pass before the young man was on 
the quarter-deck, closely examining the heavens 
and the horizon. His first question was to ask 
if nothing had been seen during the watch. The 
answer was in the negative. 

“ I like this opening in the northwest,” observed 
the captain, after his eye had thoroughly scanned 
the whole of the still dusky and limited view. 
u Wind will come out of it. Give us a capful, 
and we shall try the speed of this boasted Water- 
Wltch ! Do I not see a sail on our weather- 
beam ? — or is it the crest of a wave ? ” 

“The sea is getting irregular, and I have (I 
often been thus deceived, since the light ap- ! 
peared.” 

“ Get more sail on the ship. Here is wind in- 
shore of us ; we will be ready for it. See every 
thing clear to show all our canvas.” 

The lieutenant received these orders with the 
customary deference, and communicated them to 
his inferiors again, with a promptitude that dis- 
tinguishes sea discipline. The Coquette, at the 
moment, was lying under her three topsails, one 
of which was thrown against its mast, in a man- i 
ner to hold the vessel as nearly stationary as the i 
drift and the wash of the waves would allow. 
So soon, however, as the officer of the watch sum- 
moned the people to exertion, the massive yards i 
were swung ; several light sails that served to 
balance the fabric as well as to urge it ahead, 1 
were hoisted or opened ; and the ship immediately j 
began to move through the water. While the 
men of the watch were thus employed, the flap- 
ping of the canvas announced the approach of a ! 
new breeze. 

The coast of North America is liable to sud- ' 
den and dangerous transitions in the currents of 
the air. It is a circumstance of no unusual oc- I 
currence for a gale to alter its direction with so | 
little warning as greatly to jeopard the safety of ' 
a ship or even to overwhelm her. It has been ! 


A TRIAL OF SPEED. 


99 


often said, that the celebrated Ville de Paris was 
lost through one of these violent changes, her 
captain having inadvertently hove-to the vessel 
under too much after-sail, a mistake by which he 
lost the command of his ship during the pressing 
emergency that ensued. Whatever may have 
been the fact as regards that ill-fated prize, it was 
certain that Ludlow was perfectly aware of the 
hazards that sometimes accompany the first blasts 
of a northwest wind on his native coast, and that 
he never forgot to be prepared for the danger. 

When the wind from the land struck the Co- 
quette, the streak of light, which announced the 
appearance of the sun, had been visible several 
minutes. As the broad sheets of vapor, that had 
veiled the heavens during the prevalence of the 
southeasterly breeze, were rolled up into dense 
masses of clouds, like some immense curtain that 
is withdrawn from before its scene, the water, no 
less than the sky, became instantly visible in 
every quarter. It is scarcely necessary to say, 
how eagerly the gaze of our young seaman ran 
' over the horizon, in order to observe the objects 
which might come with inits range. At first, dis- 
appointment was plainly painted in his counte- 
nance ; then succeeded the animated eye and 
i flushed cheek of success. 

“ I had thought her gone ! ” he said to his im- 
mediate subordinate in authority. “ But here 
she is, to leeward, just within the edge of that 
driving mist, and as dead under our lee as a kind 
t Fortune could place her. Keep the ship away, sir, 
and cover her with canvas, from her trucks 
down. Call the people from their hammocks, 
and show yon insolent what her majesty’s sloop 
can do, at need ! ” 

This command was the commencement of a 
general and hasty movement, in which every sea- 
| man in the ship exerted his powers to the utmost. 

! All hands were no sooner called, than the depths 
of the vessel gave up their tenants, who, joining 
their force to that of the watch on deck, quickly 
covered the spars of the Coquette with a snow- 
white cloud. Not content to catch the breeze on 
such surfaces as the ordinary yards could distend, 
long booms were thrust out over the water, and 
sail was set beyond sail, until the bending masts 
would bear no more. The low hull which sup- 
ported this towering and complicated mass of 
ropes, spars, and sails, yielded to the powerful im- 
pulse, and the fabric, which, in addition to its 
crowd of human beings, sustained so heavy a 
load of artillery, with all its burden of stores and 
ammunition, began to divide the waves with the 
steady and imposing force of a vast momentum. 
The seas curled and broke against her sides, like 


water washing the rocks, the steady ship feeling, 
as yet, no impression from their feeble efforts. 
As the wind increased, however, and the vessel 
went farther from the land, the surface of the 
ocean gradually grew more agitated, until the 
highlands, which lay over the villa of the Lust in 
Rust, finally sank into the sea ; when the top- 
gallant-royals of the ship were seen describing 
wide segments of circles against the heavens, and 
her dark sides occasionally rose, from a long and 
deep roll, glittering with the element that sus- 
tained her. 

When Ludlow first descried the object which 
he believed to be the chase, it seemed a motion- 
less speck on the margin of the sea. It had now 
grown into the magnitude and symmetry of the 
well-known brigantine. Her slight and attenu- 
ated spars were plainly to be seen, rolling easily 
but wide, with the constant movement of the hull, 
and with no sail spread, but that which was ne- 
cessary to keep the vessel in command on the bil- 
lows. When the Coquette was just within the 
range of a cannon, the canvas began to unfold ; 
and it was soon apparent that the Skimmer of 
the Seas was preparing for flight. 

The first manoeuvre of the Water-Witch was 
an attempt to gain the wind of her pursuer. A 
short experiment appeared to satisfy those who 
governed the brigantine that the effort was 
vain, while the wind was so fresh, and the water 
so rough. She wore, and crowded sail on the op- 
posite tack, in order to try her speed with the 
cruiser ; nor was it until the result sufficiently 
showed the danger of permitting the other to get 
any nigher that she finally put her helm aweather 
and ran off, like a sea-fowl resting on its wing, 
with the wind over her taffrail. 

The two vessels now presented the spectacle 
of a stern-chase. The brigantine also opened the 
folds of all her sails, and there arose a pyramid 
of canvas over the nearly imperceptible hull, that 
resembled a fantastic cloud driving above the 
sea, with a velocity that seemed to rival the pas- 
sage of the vapor that floated in the upper air. 
As equal skill directed the movements of the two 
vessels, and the same breeze pressed upon their 
sails, it was long before there was any perceptible 
difference in their progress. Hour passed after 
hour, and were it not for the sheets of white foam 
that were dashed from the bows of the Coquette, 
and the manner in which she even outstripped 
the caps of the combing waves, her commander 
might have fancied his vessel ever in the same 
spot. While the ocean presented, on every side, 
the same monotonous and rolling picture, there 
lay the chase, seemingly neither a foot nearer nor 


100 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


a foot farther than when the trial of speed began. 
A dark line would rise on the crest of a wave, 
and then, sinking again, leave nothing visible, but 
the yielding and waving cloud of canvas that 
danced along the sea. 

“ I had hoped for better things of the ship, 
Master Trysail ! ” said Ludlow, who had long 
been seated on a knight-head, attentively watch- 
ing the progress of the chase. “We are buried 
to the bob-stays ; yet, there yon fellow lies, noth- 
ing plainer than when he first showed his stud- 
ding-sails ! ” 

“ And there he will lie, Captain Ludlow, while 
the light lasts. I have chased the rover in the 
narrow seas, till the cliffs of England melted away 
like the cap of a wave ; and we had raised the 
sand-banks of Holland high as the sprit-sail-yard, 
yet what good came of it ? The rogue played 
with us, as your sportsman trifles with the entan- 
gled trout ; and when we thought we had him, he 
would shoot without the range of our guns, with 
as little exertion as a ship slides into the water, 
after the spur shoars are knocked from under her 
bows.” 

“ Ay, but the Druid had a little of the rust of 
antiquity about her. The Coquette has never 
got a chase under her lee, that she did not 
speak.” 

“I disparage no ship, sir, for character is 
character, and none should speak lightly of their 
fellow-creatures, and, least of all, of any thing 
which follows the sea. I allow the Coquette to 
be a lively boat on a wind, and a real scudder 
going large; but one should know the wright 
that fashioned yonder brigantine, before he ven- 
tures to say that any vessel in her majesty’s fleet 
can hold way with her, when she is driven 
hard.” 

“ These opinions, Trysail, are fitter for the tales 
of a top than for the mouth of one who walks 
the quarter-deck.” 

“ I should have lived to little purpose, Cap- 
tain Ludlow, not to know that what was philoso- 
phy in my young days is not philosophy now. 
They say the world is round, which is my own 
opinion — first, because the glorious Sir Francis 
Drake, and divers other Englishmen, haye gone 
in, as it were, at one end, and out at the other ; 
no less than several seamen of other nations, to 
say nothing of one Magellan, who pretends to 
have been the first man to make the passage, 
which I take to be neither more nor less than a 
Portuguee lie, it being altogether unreasonable to 
suppose that a Portuguee should do what an Eng- 
lishman had not yet thought of doing ; secondly, 
if the world were not round, or some such shape, 


why should we see the small sails of a ship before 
her courses, or why should her truck heave up 
into the horizon before the hull? They say, 
moreover, that the world turns round, which is no 
doubt true ; and it is just as true that its opin- 
ions turn round with it, which brings me to the 
object of my remark — yon fellow shows more of 
his broadside, sir, than common! He is edging 
in for the land, which must lie here away, on our 
larboard beam, in order to get into smoother w^- 
ter. This tumbling about is not favorable to 
your light craft, let who will build them.” 

“I had hoped to drive him off the coast. 
Could we get him fairly into the Gulf Stream, he 
would be ours, for he is too low in the water to 
escape us in the short seas. We must force him 
into blue water, though our upper spars crack in 
the struggle ! — Go aft, Mr. Hopper, and tell the 
officer of the watch to bring the ship’s head up, 
a point and a half, to the northward, and to give 
a slight pull on the braces.” 

“ What a mainsail the rogue carries ! it is as 
broad as the instructions of a roving commission 
with a hoist like the promotion of an admiral’s 
son ! How every thing pulls aboard .him ! A 
thorough-bred sails that brigantine, let him come 
whence he may ! ” 

“ I think we near him ! The rough water is 
helping us, and we are closing. Steer small, fel- 
low ; steer small ! You see the color of his mould- 
ings begins to show, when he lifts on the seas.” 

“ The sun touches his side — yet, Captain Lud- 
low, you may be right — for here is a man in his 
foretop, plainly enough to be seen. A shot or 
two, among his spars and sails, might now do ser- 
vice.” 

Ludlow affected not to hear; but the first- 
lieutenant, having come on the forecastle, seconded 
this opinion, by remarking that their position 
would indeed enable them to use the chase-gun, 
without losing any distance. As Trysail sus- 
tained his former assertion by truths that were 
too obvious to be refuted, the commander of the 
cruiser reluctantly issued an order to clear away 
the forward gun, and to shift it into the bridle- 
port. The interested and attentive seamen were 
not long in performing this service ; and a report 
was quickly made to the captain, that the piece 
was ready. 

Ludlow then descended from his post on the 
knight-head, and pointed the cannon himself. 

“ Knock away the quoin entirely,” he said to 
the captain of the gun, when he had got the range ; 

“ now mind her when she lifts forward ; keep the 
ship steady, sir — fire ! ” 

Those gentlemen “ who live at home at ease,” 


A LUCKY SHOT. 


101 


are often surprised to read of combats, in which 
so much powder, and hundreds and even thou- 
sands of shot, are expended, with so little loss 
of human life ; while a struggle on the land of 
less duration, and seemingly of less obstinacy, 
shall sweep away a multitude. The secret of 
the difference lies in the uncertainty of aim, on 
an element as restless as the sea. The largest 
ship is rarely quite motionless, when on the open 
ocean ; and it is not necessary to tell the reader, 
that the smallest variation in the direction of a 
gun at its muzzle becomes magnified to many 
yards at the distance of a few hundred feet. 
Marine gunnery has no little resemblance to the 
skill of the fowler; since a calculation for a 
change in the position of the object must com- 
monly be made in both cases, with the additional 
embarrassment on the part of the seaman, of an 
allowance for a complicated movement in the 
piece itself. 

How far the gun of the Coquette was subject 
to the influence of these causes, or how far the 
desire of her captain to protect those whom he 
believed to be on board the brigantine, had an 
effect on the direction taken by its shot, will prob- 
ably never be known. It is certain, however, 
that when the stream of fire, followed by its curl- 
ing cloud, had gushed out upon the water, fifty 
eyes sought in vain to trace the course of the 
iron messenger among the sails and rigging of 
the Water-Witch. The symmetry of her beau- 
tiful rig was undisturbed, and the unconscious 
fabric still glided over the waves with its custom- 
ary ease and velocity. Ludlow had a reputa- 
tion among his crew, for some skill in the direc- 
tion of a gun. The failure, therefore, in no de- 
gree aided in changing the opinions of the com- 
mon men concerning the character of the chase. 
Many shook their heads, and more than one vet- 
eran tar, as he paced his narrow limits with both 
hands thrust into the bosom of his jacket, was 
heard to utter his belief of the inefficacy of ordi- 
nary shot, in bringing-to that brigantine. It was 
necessary, however, to repeat the experiment, for 
the sake of appearances. The gun was several 
times discharged, and always with the same want 
of success. 

“ There is little use in wasting our powder, 
at this distance, and with so heavy a sea,” said 
Ludlow, quitting the cannon, after a fifth and 
fruitless essay. “ I shall fire no more. Look at 
your sails, gentlemen, and see that every thing 
draws. We must conquer with our heels, and let 
the artillery rest. — Secure the gun.” 

“ The piece is ready, sir,” observed its cap- 
tain, presuming on his known favor with the com- 


mander, though he qualified the boldness by tak- 
ing off his hat, in a sufficiently respectful manner 
— “ ’Tis a pity to bally it ! ” 

“ Fire it yourself, then, and return the piece 
to its port,” carelessly returned the captain, will- 
ing to show that others could be as unlucky as 
himself. 

The men quartered at the gun, left alone, 
busied themselves in executing the order. 

“ Hun in the quoin, and, blast the brig, give 
her a point-blanker ! ” said the gruff old seaman 
who was intrusted with a local authority over 
that particular piece. “None of your geometry 
calculations for me ! ” 

The crew obeyed, and the match was instant- 
ly applied. A rising sea, however, aided the ob- 
ject of the directly-minded old tar, or our narra- 
tion of the exploits of the piece would end with 
the discharge, since its shot would otherwise have 
inevitably plunged into a wave within a few yards 
of its muzzle. The bows of the ship rose with 
the appearance of the smoke, the usual brief ex- 
pectation followed, then fragments of wood were 
seen flying above the top-mast-studding-sail-boom 
of the brigantine, which, at the same time, flew 
forward, carrying with it, and entirely deranging 
the two important sails that depended on the spar 
for support. 

“ So much for plain sailing ! ” cried the de- 
lighted tar, slapping the breech of the gun affec- 
tionately. “ Witch or no witch, there go two of 
her jackets at once; and by the captain’s good- 
will, we shall shortly take off some more of her 
clothes ! In sponge — ” 

“ The order is to run the gun aft, and secure 
it,” said a merry midshipman, leaping on the heel 
of the bowsprit to gaze at the confusion on board 
the chase. “ The rogue is nimble enough in sav- 
ing his canvas ! ” 

There was, in truth, necessity for exertion, 
on the part of those who governed the movements 
of the brigantine. The two sails that were ren- 
dered temporarily useless, were of great impor- 
tance, with the wind over the taffrail. The dis- 
tance between the two vessels did not exceed a 
mile, and the danger of lessening it was too ob- 
vious to admit of delay. The ordinary move- 
ments of seamen, in critical moments, are dictated 
by a quality that resembles instinct more than 
thought. The constant hazards of a dangerous 
and delicate profession, in which delay may prove 
fatal, and in which life, character, and property, 
are so often dependent on the self-possession and 
resources of him who commands, beget, in time, 
so keen a knowledge of the necessary expedients, 
as to cause it to approach a natural quality. 


102 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


The studding-sails of the Water-Witch were 
no sooner fluttering in the air, than the brigan- 
tine slightly changed her course, like some bird 
whose wing has been touched by the fowler ; and 
her head was seen inclining as much to the south 
as a moment before it had pointed northward. 
The variation, trifling as it was, brought the wind 
on the opposite quarter, and caused the boom that 
distended her mainsail to gybe. At the same in- 
stant, the studding sails, which had been flapping 
under the lee of this vast sheet of canvas, swelled 
to their utmost tension ; and the vessel lost little, 
if any, of the power which urged her through the 
water. Even while this evolution was so rapidly 
performed, men were seen aloft, nimbly employed, 
as it has been already expressed by the observant 
little midshipman, in securing the crippled sails. 

“ A rogue has a quick wit,” said Trysail, 
whose critical eye suffered no movement of the 
chase to escape him ; “ and he has need of it, 
sail from what haven he may! Yon brigantine 
is prettily handled ! Little have we gained by 
our fire, but the gunner’s account of ammunition 
expended ; and little has the free-trader lost, but 
a studding-sail-boom, which will work up very 
well yet into top-gallant-yards, and other light 
spars, for such a cockle-shell.” 

“ It is something gained to force him off the 
land into rougher water,” Ludlow mildly an- 
swered. “ I think we see his quarter-pieces more 
plainly than before the gun was used.” 

“ Ho doubt, sir, no doubt. I got a glimpse 
of his lower dead-eyes a minute ago ; but I have 
been near enough to see the saucy look of the 
hussy under his bowsprit; yet there goes the 
brigantine, at large ! ” 

■“ I am certain that we are closing,” thought- 
fully returned Ludlow. — “ Hand me the glass, 
quarter-master.” 

Trysail watched the countenance of his young 
commander, as he examined the chase with the aid 
of the instrument ; and he thought he read strong 
discontent in his features, when the other laid it 
aside. 

“ Hoes he show no signs of coming back to his 
allegiance, sir ? — or does the rogue hold out in 
obstinacy ? ” 

“ The figure on his poop is the bold man who 
ventured on board the Coquette, and who now 
seems quite as much at his ease as when he ex- 
hibited his effrontery here ! ” 

“ There is a look of deep water about that 
rogue ; and I thought that her majesty had gained 
a prize when he first put foot on our decks. You 
are right enough, sir, in calling him a bold one ! 
The fellow’s impudence would unsettle the dis- 


cipline of a whole ship’s company, though every 
other man were an officer, and all the rest priests. 
He took up as much room in walking the quarter- 
deck, as a ninety in wearing ; and the truck is not 
driven on the head of that top-gallant-mast half as 
hard as the hat is riveted to his head. The fel- 
low has no reverence for a pennant ! I managed, 
in shifting pennants at sunset, to make the fly of 
the one that came down flap in his impudent 
countenance, by way of hint ; and he took it as 
a Dutchman minds a signal— -that is, as a question 
to be answered in the next watch. A little polish 
got on the quarter-deck of a man-of-war would 
make a philosopher of the rogue, and fit him for 
any company, short of heaven ! ” 

“There goes a new boom aloft! ” cried Lud- 
low, interrupting the discursive discourse of the 
master. “He is bent on getting in with the 
shore.” 

“ If these puffs come much heavier,” returned 
the master, whose opinions of the chase vacillated 
with his professional feelings, “ we shall have him 
at our own play, and try the qualities of his brig- 
antine. The sea has a green spot to windward, 
and there are strong symptoms of a squall on the 
water. One can almost see into the upper world, 
with an air as clear as this. Your northers sweep 
the mists off America, and leave both sea and 
land bright as a school-boy’s face, before the 
tears have dimmed it, after the first flogging. 
You have sailed in the southern seas, Captain 
Ludlow, I know ; for we were shipmates among 
the islands, years that are past ; but I never heard 
whether you have run the Gibraltar passage, and 
seen the blue water that lies among the Italy moun- 
tains ? ” 

“ I made a cruise against the Barbary states, 
when a lad ; and we had business that took us to 
the northern shore.” 

“ Ay ! ’Tis your northern shore I mean ! There J 
is not a foot of it all, from the rock at the en- i 
trance to the Faro of Messina, that eye of mine I 
hath not seen. No want of lookouts and land- 
marks in that quarter ! Here we are close aboard 
of America, which lies some eight or ten leagues | 
there-away to the northward of us, and some forty 
astern ; and yet, if it were not for our departure, 
with the color of the water, and a knowledge of 
the soundings, one might believe himself in the 
middle of the Atlantic. Many a good ship plumps 
upon America before she knows where she is go- 
ing ; while in you sea, you may run for a moun- 
tain, with its side in full view, four-and-twenty 
hours on a stretch, before you see the town at its 
foot.” 

“ Nature has compensated for the difference, 


TRYSAIL’S STORY. 


103 


in defending the approach to this coast by the 
Gulf Stream, with its floating weeds and different 
temperature ; while the lead may feel its way in 
the darkest night, for no roof of a house is more 
gradual than the ascent of this shore, from a hun- 
dred fathoms to a sandy beach.” 

“ I said many a good ship, Captain Ludlow, 
and not good navigator. — No — no — your thorough- 
bred knows the difference between green water 
and the blue, as well as between a hand-lead and 
the deep sea. But I remember to have missed 
an observation, once, when running for Genoa, 
before a mistrail. There was a likelihood of 
making our land-fall in the night, and the greater 
the need of knowing the ship’s position. I have 
often thought, sir, that the ocean was like human 
life — a blind track for all that is ahead, and none 
of the clearest as respects that which has been 
passed over. Many a man runs headlong to his 
owm. destruction, and many a ship steers for a 
reef under a press of canvas. To-morrow is a 
fog, into which none of us can see ; and even the 
present time is little better than thick weather, 
into which we look without getting much infor- 
mation. Well, as I was observing, here lay our 
course, with the wind as near aft as need be, blow- 
ing much as at present ; for your French mistrail 
has a family likeness to the American norther. 
We had the maintop-gallant-sail set, without stud- 
ding-sails, for we began to think of the deep bight 
; in which Genoa is stowed, and the sun had dipped 
more than an hour. As our good fortune would 
have it, clouds and mistrails do not agree long, 
and we got a clear horizon. Here lay a moun- 
tain of snow, northerly, a little west, and there lay 
another, southerly with easting. The best ship 
in Queen Anne’s navy could not have fetched 
either in a day’s run, yet there we saw them, as 
plainly as if anchored under their lee ! A look 
at the chart soon gave us an insight into our situ- 
ation. The first were the Alps, as they call them, 
being as I suppose the French for apes, of which 
there are no doubt plenty in those regions ; and 
the other were the highlands of Corsica, both be- 
ing as white, in midsummer, as the hair of a man 
of fourscore. You see, sir, we had only to set the 
two, by compass, to know, within a league or two, 
where we were. So we ran till midnight, and 
hove-to ; in the morning we took the light to feel 
for our haven — ” 

“ The brigantine is gybing again ! ” cried Lud- 
low. “ He is determined to shoal his water ! ” 

The master glanced an eye around the hori- 
zon, and then pointed steadily toward the north. 
Ludlow observed the gesture, and, turning his 
head, he was at no loss to read its meaning. 


CHAPTER XXL 

“ I am gone, sir, 

And anon, sir, 

I’ll be with you again.” 

Clown in Twelfth Fight. 

Although it is contrary to the apparent evi- 
dence of our senses, there is no truth more certain 
than that the course of most gales of wind comes 
from the leeward. The effects of a tempest shall 
be felt for hours, at a point that is seemingly near 
its termination, before they are witnessed at an- 
other that appears to be nearer its source. Ex- 
perience has also shown that a storm is more de- 
structive at or near its place of actual commence- 
ment, than at that whence it may seem to come. 
The easterly gales that so often visit the coast of 
the republic, commit their ravages in the bays 
of Pennsylvania and Virginia, or along the sounds 
of the Carolinas, hours before their existence is 
known in the States farther east ; and the same 
wind which is a tempest at Hatteras, becomes 
softened to a breeze near the Penobscot. There 
is, however, little mystery in this apparent phe- 
nomenon. The vacuum which has been created in 
the air, and which is the origin of all winds, must 
be filled first from the nearest stores of the atmos- 
phere ; and, as each region contributes to produce 
the equilibrium, it must, in return, receive other 
supplies from those which lie beyond. Were a 
given quantity of water to be suddenly abstracted 
from the sea, the empty space would be replen- 
ished by a torrent from the nearest surrounding 
fluid, whose level would be restored in succession, 
by supplies that were less and less violently con- 
tributed. Were the abstraction made on a shoal, 
or near the land, the flow would be the greatest 
from that quarter where the fluid had the greatest 
force, and with it would consequently come the 
current. 

But while there is so close an affinity between 
the two fluids, the workings of the viewless winds 
are, in their nature, much less subject to the pow- 
ers of human comprehension than those of the 
sister element. The latter are frequently subject 
to the direct and manifest influence of the former, 
while the effects produced by the ocean on the 
air are hid from our knowledge by the subtle 
character of the agency. Vague and erratic cur- 
rents, it is true, are met in the waters of the 
ocean; but their origin is easily referred to the 
action of the winds, while we often remain in un- 
certainty as to the immediate causes which give 
birth to the breezes themselves. Thus the mar- 
iner, even while the victim of the irresistible 
waves, studies the heavens as the known source 


104 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


from whence the danger comes ; and while he 
struggles fearfully, amid the strife of the elements, 
to preserve the balance of the delicate and fear- 
ful machine he governs, he well knows that the 
one which presents the most visible, and to a 
landsman much the most formidable object of ap- 
prehension, is but the instrument of the unseen and 
powerful agent that heaps the water on his path. 

It is in consequence of this difference in power, 
and of the mystery that envelops the workings of 
the atmosphere, that, in all ages, seamen have 
been the subjects of superstition in respect to the 
winds. There is always more or less of the de- 
pendency of ignorance, in the manner with which 
they have regarded the changes of that fickle ele- 
ment. Even the mariners of our own times are 
not exempt from this weakness. The thoughtless 
ship -boy is reproved if his whistle be heard in the 
howling of the gale ; and the officer sometimes be- 
trays a feeling of uneasiness if at such a moment 
he should witness any violation of the received 
opinions of his profession. He finds himself in 
the situation of one whose ears have drunk in 
legends of supernatural appearances, which a bet- 
ter instruction has taught him to condemn ; and 
who, when placed in situations to awaken their 
recollection, finds the necessity of drawing upon 
his reason, to quiet emotions that he might hesi- 
tate to acknowledge. 

When Trysail directed the attention of his 
young commander to the heavens, however, it 
was more with the intelligence of an experienced 
mariner than with any of the sensations to which 
allusion has just been made. A cloud had sud- 
denly appeared on the water, and long ragged 
portions of the vapor were pointing from it, in a 
manner to give it what seamen term a windy ap- 
pearance. 

“ We shall have more than we want with this 
canvas ! ” said the master, after both he and his 
commander had studied the appearance of the 
mist for a sufficient time. “ That fellow is a mor- 
tal enemy of lofty sails ; he likes to see nothing 
but naked sticks up in his neighborhood ! ” 

11 1 should think his appearance will force the 
brigantine to shorten sail,” returned the captain. 

“ We will hold on to the last, while he must begin 
to take in soon, or the squall will come upon him 
too fast for a light-handed vessel.” 

“’Tis a cruiser’s advantage! yet the rogue 
shows no signs of lowering a single cloth ! ” 

“ We will look to our own spars,” said Lud- 
low, turning to the lieutenant of the watch. “ Call 
the people up, sir, and see all ready for yonder 
cloud.” 

The order was succeeded by the customary 


hoarse summons of the boatswain, who prefaced 
the effort of his lungs by a long, shrill winding of 
his call, above the hatchways of the ship. The 
cry of “ All hands shorten sail, ahoy ! ” soon 
brought the crew from the depths of the vessel 
to her upper deck. Each trained seaman silently 
took his station ; and after the ropes were cleared, 
and the few necessary preparations made, all stood 
in attentive silence, awaiting the sounds that 
might next proceed from the trumpet, which the 
first-lieutenant had now assumed in person. 

The superiority of sailing, which a ship fitted 
for war possesses over one employed in commerce, 
proceeds from a variety of causes. The first is 
in the construction of the hull, which in the one 
is as justly fitted as the art of naval architecture 
will allow, to the double purposes of speed and 
buoyancy ; while, in the other, the desire of gain 
induces great sacrifices of these important ob- 
jects, in order that the vessel may be burdensome. 
Next comes the difference in the rig, which is not 
only more square, but more lofty, in a ship-of-war 
than in a trader, because the greater force of the 
crew of the former enables them to manage both 
spars and sails that are far heavier than any ever 
used in the latter. Then comes the greater abili- 
ty of the cruiser to make and shorten sail, since 
a ship manned by one or two hundred men may 
safely profit by the breeze to the last moment, 
while one manned by a dozen often loses hours 
of a favorable wind, from the weakness of her 
crew. This explanation will enable the otherwise 
uninitiated reader to understand the reasons why 
Ludlow had hoped the coming squall would aid 
his designs on the chase. 

To express ourselves in nautical language, 
“the Coquette held on to the last.” Ragged 
streaks of vapor were whirling about in the air, 
within a fearful proximity to the lofty and light , 
sails, and the foam on the water had got so near 
the ship as already to efface her wake; when 
Ludlow, who had watched the progress of the 
cloud with singular coolness, made a sign to his 
subordinate that the proper instant had arrived. 

“ In, of all ! ” shouted through the trumpet, 
was the only command necessary; for officers ( 
and crew were well instructed in their duty. 

The words had no sooner quitted the lips of 
the lieutenant, than the steady roar of the sea was 
drowned in the flapping of canvas. Tacks, 
sheets, and halyards, went together ; and, in less 
than a minute, the cruiser showed naked spars 
and whistling ropes, where so lately had been 
seen a cloud of snow-white cloth. All her steer- 1 
ing-sails came in together, and the lofty canvas 
was furled to her topsails. The latter still stood 


THE TWO VESSELS IN A SQUALL. 


105 


and the vessel received the weight of the little 
tempest on their broad surfaces. The gallant 
ship stood the shock nobly ; but, as the wind 
came over the taffrail, its force had far less influ- 
ence on the hull than on the other occasion al- 
ready described. The danger, now, was only for 
her spars ; and these were saved by the watchful 
though bold vigilance of her captain. 

Ludlow was no sooner certain that the cruiser 
felt the force of the wind, and to gain this assur- 
ance needed but a few moments, than he turned 
his eager look on the brigantine. To the surprise 
of all who witnessed her temerity, the Water- 
Witch still showed all her light sails. Swiftly as 
the ship was now driven through the water, its 
velocity was greatly outstripped by that of the 
wind. The signs of the passing squall were al- 
ready visible on the sea, for half the distance be- 
tween the two vessels ; and still the chase showed 
no consciousness of its approach. Her commander 
had evidently studied its effects on the Coquette ; 
and he awaited the shock with the coolness of 
one accustomed to depend on his own resources, 
and able to estimate the force with which he had 
to contend. 

“ If he hold on a minute longer, he will get 
more than he can bear, and away will go all his 
kites, like smoke from the muzzle of a gun ! ” 
muttered Trysail. “ Ah ! there come down his 
studding-sails — ah ! settle away the mainsail — in 
royal, and topgallant sail, with topsail on the cap ! 
— The rascals are as nimble as pickpockets in a 
crowd.” 

The honest master has sufficiently described 
the precautions taken on board of the brigantine. 
Nothing was furled; but as every thing was 
hauled up, or lowered, the squall had little to 
waste its fury on. The diminished surfaces of the 
sails protected the spars, while the canvas was 
saved by the aid of cordage. After a few mo- 
ments of pause, half a dozen men were seen busied 
in more effectually securing the few upper and 
lighter sails. 

But though the boldness with which the Skim- 
mer of the Seas carried sail to the last, was justi- 
fied by the result, still the effects of the increased 
wind and rising waves on the progress of the two 
vessels grew more sensible. While the little and 
low brigantine began to labor and roll, the Co- 
quette rode the element with buoyancy, and con- 
sequently with less resistance from the water. 
Twenty minutes, during which the force of the 
wind was but little lessened, brought the cruiser 
so near the chase as to enable her crew to dis- 
tinguish most of the smaller objects that were 
visible above her ridge-ropes. 


“ Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks ! ” said 
Ludlow, in an under-tone, the excitement of the 
chase growing with the hopes of success. “I 
ask but one half-hour, then shift at your pleas- 
ure ! ” 

“ Blow, good devil, and you shall have the 
cook ! ” muttered Trysail, quoting a very differ- 
ent author. “ Another glass will bring us within 
hail.” 

11 The squall is leaving us ! ” interrupted the 
captain. “ Pack on the ship again, Mr. Luff, from 
her trucks to her ridge-ropes ! ” 

The whistle of the boatswain was again heard 
at the hatchways, and the hoarse summons of 
“ AH hands make sail, ahoy ! ” once more called 
the people to their stations. The sails were set 
with a rapidity which nearly equalled the speed 
with which they had been taken in ; and the vio- 
lence of the breeze was scarcely off the ship, be- 
fore its complicated volumes of canvas were spread 
to catch what remained. On the other hand, the 
chase, even more hardy than the cruiser, did not 
wait for the end of the squall ; but, profiting by 
the notice given by the latter, the “ Skimmer of 
the Seas ” began to sway his yards aloft while the 
sea was still white with foam. 

“ The quick-sighted rogue knows we are done 
with it,” said Trysail ; “ and he is getting ready 
for his own turn. We gain but little of him, not- 
withstanding our muster of hands.” 

The fact was too true to be denied, for the 
brigantine was again under all her canvas, before 
the ship had sensibly profited by her superior phys- 
ical force. It was at this moment, when, perhaps 
in consequence of the swell on the water, the Co- 
quette might have possessed some small advan- 
tage, that the wind suddenly failed. The squall 
had been its expiring effort ; and, within an hour 
after the two vessels had again made sail, the 
canvas was flapping against the masts, in a man- 
ner to throw back, in eddies, a force as great as 
that it received. The sea fell fast, and near the 
end of the last or forenoon watch, the surface of 
ocean was agitated only by those long, undulating 
swells that seldom leave it entirely without mo- 
tion. For some little time, there were fickle cur- 
rents of air playing in various directions about 
the ship, but always in force sufficient to urge her 
slowly through the water ; and then, when the 
equilibrium of the element seemed established, 
there was a total calm. During the half-hour of 
the baffling winds, the brigantine had been a gain- 
er, though not enough to carry her entirely beyond 
the reach of the cruiser’s guns. 

“ Haul up the courses ! ” said Ludlow, when 
the last breath of wind had been felt on the 


106 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


ship, and, quitting the gun where he had long 
stood, watching the movements of the chase. 
“ Get the boats into the water, Hr. Luff, and arm 
their crews.” 

The young commander issued this order, 
which needed no interpreter to explain its object 
firmly, but in sadness. His face was thoughtful, 
and his whole air was that of a man who yielded 
to an imperative but unpleasant duty. When he 
had spoken, he signed to the attentive alderman 
and his friend to follow, and entered his cabin. 

“ There is no alternative,” continued Ludlow, 
as he laid the glass which so often that morning 
had been at his eye, on the table, and threw him- 
self into a chair. “ This rover must be seized at 
every hazard, and here is a favorable occasion to 
carry him by boarding. Twenty minutes will 
bring us to his side, and five more will put us in 
possession; but — ” 

“ You think the ‘ Skimmer ’ is not the man 
to receive such visitors with an old woman’s wel- 
come,” pithily observed Myndert. 

“ I much mistake the man if he yield so beau- 
tiful a vessel peacefully. Duty is imperative on 
a seaman, Alderman Yan Beverout; and, much as 
I lament the circumstance, it must be obeyed.” 

“I understand you, sir. Captain Ludlow has 
two mistresses, Queen Anne and the daughter of 
old Etienne Barberie. He fear3 both. When 
the debts exceed the means of payment, it would 
seem wise to offer to compound ; and in this case 
her majesty and my niece may be said to stand in 
case of creditors.” 

“ You mistake my meaning, sir,” said Ludlow. 
“ There can be no composition between a faithful 
officer and his duty, nor do I acknowledge more 
than one mistress in my ship — but seamen are lit- 
tle to be trusted in the moment of success, and with 
their passions awakened by resistance. Aider- 
man Yan Beverout, will you accompany the par- 
ty, and serve as mediator ? ” 

“ Pikes and hand-grenades ! Am I a fit sub- 
ject for mounting the sides of a smuggler with a 
broadsword between my teeth ! If you will put 
me into the smallest and most peaceable of your 
boats, with a crew of two boys, that I can con- 
trol with the authority of a magistrate, and cove- 
nant to remain here with your three topsails 
aback, having always a flag of truce at each mast, 
I will bear the olive-branch to the brigantine, but 
not a word of menace. If report speak true, 
your ‘ Skimmer of the Seas ’ is no lover of threats, 
and Heaven forbid that I should do violence to 
any man’s habits ! I will go forth as your turtle- 
dove, Captain Ludlow ; but not one foot will I 
proceed as your Goliath,” 


“ And you equally refuse endeavoring to avert 
hostilities ? ” continued Ludlow, turning his look 
on the Patroon of Kinderhook. 

“I am the queen’s subject, and ready to aid 
in supporting the laws,” quietly returned Oloff 
Yan Staats. 

“Patroon!” exclaimed his watchful friend, 
“ you know not what you say ! If there were 
question of an inroad of Mohawks, or an invasion 
from the Canadas, the case would be altered ; but 
this is only a trifling difference concerning a small 
balance in the revenue duties, which had better 
be left to your tide-waiter and the other wild-cats 
of the law. If Parliament will put temptation be- 
fore our eyes, let the sin light on their own heads. 
Human nature is weak, and the vanities of our 
system are so many inducements to overlook un- 
reasonable regulations. I say, therefore, it is 
better to remain in peace on board this ship, 
where our characters will be as safe as our 
bones, and trust to Providence for what will 
happen.” 

“ I am the queen’s subject, and ready to up- 
hold her dignity,” repeated Oloff, firmly. 

“ I will trust you, sir,” said Ludlow, taking 
his rival by the arm, and leading him into his own 
state-room. 

The conference was soon ended, and a mid- 
shipman shortly after reported that the boats were 
ready for service. The master was next sum- 
moned to the cabin, and admitted to the private 
apartment of his commander. Ludlow then pro- 
ceeded to the deck, where he made the final dis- 
positions for the attack. The ship was left in 
charge of Mr. Luff, with an injunction to profit 
by any breeze that might offer, to draw as near 
as possible to the chase. Trysail was placed in 
the launch at the head of a strong party of board- 
ers. Yan Staats of Kinderhook was provided 
with the yawl, manned only by its customary 
crew ; while Ludlow entered his own barge, which 
contained its usual complement, though the arms 
that lay in the stern-sheets sufficiently showed 
that they were prepared for service. 

The launch being the soonest ready, and of 
much the heaviest movement, was the first to quit 
the side of the Coquette. The master steered di- 
rectly for the becalmed and motionless brigantine. 
Ludlow took a more circuitous course, apparently 
with an intention of causing such a diversion as 
might distract the attention of the crew of the 
smuggler, and with the view of reaching the point 
of attack at the same moment with the boat that 
contained his principal force. The yawl also in- 
clined from the straight line, steering as much on 
one side as the barge diverged on the other, In this 


PREPARATIONS FOR ATTACK. 


107 


manner the men pulled in silence for some twenty 
minutes— the motion of the larger boat, which 
was heavily charged, being slow and difficult. 
At the end of this period, a signal was made from 
the barge, when all the men ceased rowing, and 
prepared themselves for the struggle. The launch 
was within pistol-shot of the brigantine, and di- 
rectly on her beam ; the yawl had gained her 
head, where Yan Staats of Kinderhook was study- 
ing the malign expression of the image, with an 
interest that seemed to increase as his sluggish 
nature became excited ; and Ludlow, on the quar- 
ter opposite to the launch, was examining the con- 
dition of the chase by. the aid of a glass. Try- 
sail profited by the pause to address his fol- 
lowers : 

“ This is an expedition in boats,” commenced 
the accurate and circumstantial master, “made in 
smooth water, with little, or one may say no wind, 
in the month of June, and on the coast of North 
America. You are not such a set of know-noth- 
ings, men, as to suppose the launch has been 
hoisted out, and two of the oldest, not to say best 
seamen, on the quarter-deck of her majesty’s 
ship, have gone in boats, without the intention 
of doing something more than to ask the names 
and character of the brig in sight. The smallest 
of the young gentlemen might have done that 
duty, as well as the captain or myself. It is the 
belief of those who are best informed that the 
stranger who has the impudence to lie quietly 
within long range of a royal cruiser, without show- 
ing his colors, is neither more nor less than the 
famous ‘ Skimmer of the Seas,’ a man against whose 
seamanship I will say nothing, but who has none 
of the best reputation for honesty, as respects 
the queen’s revenue. No doubt you have heard 
many extraordinary accounts of the exploits of 
this rover, some of which seem to insinuate that 
the fellow has a private understanding with those 
who manage their transactions in a less religious 
manner than it may be supposed is done by the 
bench of bishops. But what of that ? You are 
hearty Englishmen, who know what belongs to 

church and state ; and d e you are not the boys 

to be frightened by a little witchcraft ” (cheer). 
“Ay, that is intelligible and reasonable language, 
and such as satisfies me you understand the sub- 
ject. I shall say no more than just to add that 
Captain Ludlow desires there may be no indecent 
language, nor for that matter any rough treat- 
ment of the people of the brigantine, over and 
above the knocking on the head and cutting of 
throats that may be necessary to take her. In 
this particular you will take example by me, who, 
being older, have more experience than most of 


you, and who, in all reason, should better know 
when and where to show his manhood. Lay about 
you like men so long as the free-traders stand to 
their quarters — but remember mercy in the hour 
of victory ! You will on no account enter the cab- 
ins ; on this head my orders are explicit, and I 
shall make no more of throwing the man into the 
sea who dares to transgress them, than if he were 
a dead Frenchman ; and as we now clearly under- 
stand each other, and know our duty so well, 
there remains no more than to do it. I have said 
nothing of the prize-money” (a cheer), “ seeing you 
are men that love the queen and her honor more 
than lucre ” (a cheer) ; “ but this much I can safely 
promise, that there will be the usual division” (a 
cheer), “ and as there is little doubt but the rogues 
have driven a profitable trade, why the sum 
total is likely to be no trifle.” (Three hearty 
cheers.) 

The report of a pistol from the barge, which 
was immediately followed by a gun from the 
cruiser, whose shot came whistling between the 
masts of the Water-Witch, was the signal to re- 
sort to the ordinary means of victory. The mas- 
ter cheered in his turn ; and in a full, steady, and 
deep voice, he gave the order to “ pull away ! ” 
i At the same instant, the barge and yawl were 
seen advancing toward the object of their common 
attack, with a velocity that promised to bring the 
event to a speedy issue. 

Throughout the whole of the preparations in 
and about the Coquette, since the moment when 
the breeze failed, nothing had been seen of the 
crew of the brigantine. The beautiful fabric lay 
rolling on the heaving and setting waters ; but 
no human form appeared to control her move- 
men^ or to make the arrangements that seemed 
so necessary for her defence. The sails continued 
hanging as they had been left by the breeze, and 
the hull was floating at the will of the waves. 
This deep quiet was undisturbed by the approach 
of the boats ; and, if the desperate individual who 
was known to command the free-trader had any 
intentions of resistance, they had been entirely 
hid from the long and anxious gaze of Ludlow. 
Even the shouts, and the dashing of the oars on 
the water, when the boats commenced their final 
advance, produced no change on the deck of the 
chase ; though the commander of the Coquette 
saw her head-yards slowly and steadily changing 
their direction. Uncertain of the object of this 
movement, he rose on the seat of his boat, and, 
waving his hat, cheered the men to greater exer- 
tion. The barge had got within a hundred feet 
of the broadside of the brigantine, when the whole 
of her wide folds of canvas were seen swelling 


108 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


outward. The exquisitely-ordered machinery of 
spars, sails, and rigging, bowed toward the barge, 
as in the act of a graceful leave-taking, and the 
light hull glided ahead, leaving the boat to plough 
through the empty space which it had just occu- 
pied. There needed no second look to assure 
Ludlow of the inefficacy of further pursuit, since 
the sea was already ruffled by the breeze which 
had so opportunely come to aid the smuggler. 
He signed to Trysail to desist ; and both stood 
looking, with disappointed eyes, at the white and 
bubbling streak which was left by the wake of the 
fugitive. 

But while the Water-Witch left the boats, 
commanded by the captain and master of the 
queen’s cruiser, behind her, she steered directly 
on the course that was necessary to bring her 
soonest in contact with the yawl. For a few mo- 
ments, the crew of the latter believed it was their 
own advance that brought them so rapidly near 
their object; and, when the midshipman who 
steered the boat discovered his error, it was only 
in season to prevent the swift brigantine -from 
passing over his little bark. He gave the yawl a 
wide sheer, and called to his men to pull for their 
lives. Oloff Van Staats had placed himself at the 
head of the boat, armed with a hanger, and with 
every faculty too intent on the expected attack, 
to heed a danger that was scarcely intelligible to 
one of his habits. As the brigantine glided past 
he saw her low channels bending toward the wa- 
ter, and, with a powerful effort, he leaped into 
them, shouting a sort of war-cry in Dutch. At the 
next instant he threw his large frame over the bul- 
wark, and disappeared on the deck of the smug- 
gler. 

When Ludlow caused his boats to assemble on 
the spot which the chase had so lately occupied, 
he saw that the fruitless expedition had been at- 
tended by no other casualty than the involuntary 
abduction of the Patroon of Kinderhook. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ What country, friends, is this ? 11 

—“Illyria, lady.” 

Twelfth Night. 

Men are as much indebted to a fortuitous 
concurrence of circumstances for the characters 
they sustain in this world, as to their personal 
qualities. The same truth is applicable to the 
reputations of ships. The properties of a vessel, 
like those of an individual, may have their influ- 
ence on her good or evil fortune ; still, something 


is due to the accidents of life in both. Although 
the breeze which came so opportunely to the aid 
of the Water-Witch, soon filled the sails of the 
Coquette, it caused no change in the opinions of 
her crew concerning the fortunes of that ship ; 
while it served to heighten the reputation which 
the “ Skimmer of the Seas ” had already obtained, 
as a mariner who was more than favored by happy 
chances, in the thousand emergencies of his haz- 
ardous profession. Trysail himself shook his 
head, in a manner that expressed volumes, when 
Ludlow vented his humor on what the young man 
termed the luck of the smuggler ; and the crews 
of the boats gazed after the retiring brigantine, as 
the inhabitants of Japan would now most probably 
regard the passage of some vessel propelled by 
steam. As Mr. Luff was not neglectful of his duty, 
it was not long before the Coquette approached 
her boats. The delay occasioned by hoisting in 
the latter enabled the chase to increase the space 
between the two vessels to such a distance as to 
place her altogether beyond the reach of shot. Lud- 
low, however, gave his orders to pursue, the mo- 
ment the ship was ready ; and he hastened to 
conceal his disappointment in his own cabin. 

“ Luck is a merchant’s surplus, while a living 
profit is the reward of his wits ! ” observed Aider- 
man Van Beverout, who could scarce conceal the 
satisfaction he felt at the unexpected and repeat- 
ed escapes of the brigantine. “ Many a man 
gains doubloons, when he only looked for dollars, 
and many a market falls while the goods are in 
the course of clearance. There are Frenchmen 
enough, Captain Ludlow, to keep a brave officer 
in good-humor; and the less reason to fret about 
a trifling mischance in overhauling a smuggler.” 

“ I know not how highly you may prize your 
niece, Mr. Van Beverout ; but were I the uncle 
of such a woman, the idea that she had become 
the infatuated victim of the arts of yon reckless 
villain, would madden me ! ” 

“Paroxysms and strait -jackets ! Happily 
you are not her uncle, Captain Ludlow, and there- 
fore the less reason to be uneasy. The girl has a 
French fancy, and she is rummaging the smug- 
gler’s silks and laces ; when her choice is made, 
we shall have her back again, more beautiful than 
ever, for a little finery.” 

“ Choice ! 0 Alida, Alida ! this is not the 
election that we had reason to expect from thy 
cultivated mind and proud sentiments ! ” 

“ The cultivation is my work, and the pride is 
an inheritance from old Etienne de Barberie,’' 
dryly rejoined Myndert. “ But complaints never 
lowered a market nor raised the funds. Let us 
send for the patroon, and take counsel coolly, as 


THE COQUETTE’S RETURN. 


109 


to the easiest manner of finding our way back to I 
the Lust in Rust, before her majesty’s ship gets 
too far from the coast of America.” 

“ Thy pleasantry is unseasonable, sir. Your 
patroon is gone with your niece, and a pleasant 
passage they are likely to enjoy in such company ! 
We lost him in the expedition with our boats.” 

The alderman stood aghast. 

“ Lost ! — Oloff Van Staats lost, in the expedi- 
tion of the boats ! Evil betide the day when that 
discreet and affluent youth should be lost to the 
colony ! Sir, you know not what you utter when 
you hazard so rash an opinion. The death of 
the young Patroon of Kinderhook would render 
one of the best and most substantial of our fami- 
lies extinct, and leave the third best estate in the 
province without a direct heir ! ” 

“ The calamity is not so overwhelming,” re- 
turned the captain, with bitterness. “ The gen- 
tleman has boarded the smuggler, and gone with 
la belle Barberie to examine his silks and laces.” 

Ludlow then explained the manner in which 
the patroon had disappeared. When perfectly 
assured that no bodily harm had befallen his 
friend, the satisfaction of the alderman was quite 
as vivid as his consternation had been apparent 
but the moment before. 

“Gone with la belle Barberie to examine 
silks and laces ! ” he repeated, rubbing his hands 
together in delight. “Ay, there the blood of my 
old friend Stephanus begins to show itself ! Your 
true Hollander is no mercurial Frenchman, to 
beat his head and make grimaces at a shift in the 
wind, or a woman’s frown ; nor a blustering Eng- 
lishman (you are of the colony yourself, young 
gentleman) to swear a big oath and swagger; 
but, as you see, a quiet, persevering, and, in the 
main, an active son of old Batavia, who watches 
his opportunity, and goes into the very presence 
of—” 

“ Whom ? ” — demanded Ludlow, perceiving 
* that the alderman had paused. 

“Of his enemy; seeing that all the enemies 
of the queen are necessarily the enemies of every 
loyal subject. Bravo, young Oloff! thou art a 
lad after my own heart, and no doubt — no doubt 
— fortune will favor the brave ! Had a Holland- 
er a proper footing on this earth, Captain Corne- 
lius Ludlow, we should hear a different tale con- 
cerning the right to the narrow seas, and indeed 
to most other questions of commerce.” 

Ludlow rose with a bitter smile on his face, 
though with no ill feeling toward the man whose 
exultation was so natural. 

“ Mr. Van Staats may have reason to congrat- 
ulate himself on his good fortune,” he said, 


j “ though I much mistake if even his enterprise 
will succeed against the wiles of one so artful, 
and of an appearance so gay, as the man whose 
guest he has now become. Let the caprice of 
others be what it may, Alderman Yan Beverout, 
my duty must be done. The smuggler, aided by 
chance and artifice, has thrice escaped me ; the 
fourth time, it may be our fortune. If this ship 
possesses the power to destroy the lawless rover, 
let him look to his fate.” 

With this menace on his lips, Ludlow quitted 
the cabin, to resume his station on the deck, and 
to renew his unwearied watching of the move- 
ments of the chase. 

The change in the wind was altogether in fa- 
vor of the brigantine. It brought her to wind- 
ward, and was the means of placing the two ves- 
sels in positions that enabled the Water-Witch to 
profit the most by her peculiar construction. 
Consequently, when Ludlow reached his post, he 
saw that the swift and light craft had trimmed 
every thing close upon the wind, and that she 
was already so far ahead as to render the chances 
of bringing her again within range of his guns al- 
most desperate ; unless, indeed, some of the many 
vicissitudes, so common on the ocean, should in- 
terfere in his behalf. There remained little else 
to be done, therefore, but to crowd every sail on 
the Coquette that the ship would bear, and to en- 
deavor to keep within sight of the chase, during 
the hours of darkness which must so shortly suc- 
ceed. But, before the sun had fallen to the level 
of the water, the hull of the Water-Witch had 
disappeared ; and, when the day closed, no part 
of her airy outline was visible but that which was 
known to belong to her upper and lighter spars. 
In a few minutes afterward darkness covered the 
ocean ; and the seamen of the royal cruiser were 
left to pursue their object at random. 

How far the Coquette had run during the night 
does not appear, but when her commander made 
his appearance on the following morning, his long 
and anxious gaze met no other reward than a 
naked horizon. On every side, the sea presented 
the same waste of water. No object was visible, 
but the sea-fowl wheeling on his wide wing, and 
the summits of the irregular and green billows. 
Throughout that and many succeeding days, the 
cruiser continued to plough the ocean, sometimes 
running large, with every thing opened to the 
breeze that the wide booms would spread, and, at 
others, pitching and laboring with adverse winds, 
as if bent on prevailing over the obstacles which 
even Nature presented to her progress. The head 
of the worthy alderman had got completely turned ; 
and, though he patiently awaited the result, before 


110 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


the week was ended, he knew not even the di- 
rection in which the ship was steering. At length 
he had reason to believe that the end of their 
cruise approached. The efforts of the seamen 
were observed to relax, and the ship was permitted 
to pursue her course under easier sail. 

It was past meridian, on one of those days of 
moderate exertion, that Francis was seen steal- 
ing from below, and staggering from gun to gun, 
to a place in the centre of the ship, where he 
habitually took the air, in good weather, and 
where he might dispose of his person, equally 
without presuming too far on the good-nature of 
his superiors, and without courting too much in- 
timacy with the coarser herd, who composed the 
common crew. 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed the valet, addressing his 
remark to the midshipman who has already been 
mentioned by the name of Hopper — “voil& la 
terre ! Quel bonheur ! I shall be so happy — le 
batiment be trop agreable, mais vous savez, Mon- 
sieur Aspirant, que je ne suis point marin — what 
be le nom du pays ? ” 

“ They call it France,” returned the boy, who 
understood enough of the other’s language to 
comprehend his meaning ; “ and a very good 
country it is — for those that like it.” 

“ Ma foi, non ! ” — exclaimed Francis, recoil- 
ing a pace between amazement and delight. 

“ Call it Holland, then, if you prefer that coun- 
try most.” 

u Dites-moi, Monsieur Hoppair,” continued the 
valet, laying a trembling finger on the arm of the 
remorseless young rogue ; ■ ‘ est-ce la France ? ” 

“ One would think a man of your observation 
could tell that for himself. Do you not see the 
church-tower, with a chateau in the background, 
and a village built in a heap, by its side? Now 
look into yon wood ! There is a walk, straight 
as a ship’s wake in smooth water, and one — two 
— three — ay, eleven statues, with just one nose 
among them all ! ” 

“ Ma foi — dere is not no wood, and no chateau, 
and no village, and no statue, and no nose — mais, 
monsieur, je suis age— -est-ce la France ? ” 

“ Oh, you miss nothing by having an indiffer- 
ent sight, for I shall explain it all, as we go along. 
You see yonder hill-side, looking like a pattern- 
card, of green and yellow stripes, or a signal-book, 
with the flags of all nations, placed side by side — 
well, that is — les champs ; and this beautiful wood, 
with all the branches trimmed till it looks like so 
many raw marines at drill, is— la foret — •” 

. The credulity of the warm-hearted valet 
could swallow no more ; but, assuming a look of 
commiseration and dignity, he drew back, and 


left the young tyro of the sea to enjoy his joke 
with a companion who just then joined him. 

In the mean time, the Coquette continued to 
advance. The chateau, and churches, and vil- 
lages, of the midshipman, ,soon changed into a 
low sandy beach, with a background of stunted 
pines, relieved here and there by an opening, in 
which appeared the comfortable habitation and 
numerous out-buildings of some substantial yeo- 
man, or occasionally embellished by the residence 
of a country proprietor. Toward noon, the crest 
of a hill rose from the sea; and, just as the sun 
set behind the barrier of mountain, the ship passed 
the sandy cape, and anchored at the spot that 
she had quitted when first joined by her com- 
mander after his visit to the brigantine. The 
vessel was soon moored, the light yards were 
struck, and a boat was lowered into the water. 
Ludlow and the alderman then descended the side, 
and proceeded toward the mouth of the Shrews- 
bury. Although it was nearly dark before they 
had reached the shore, there remained light enough 
to enable the former to discover an object of un- 
usual appearance floating in the bay, and at no 
great distance from the direction of his barge. He 
was led by curiosity to steer for it. 

“ Cruisers and Water-Witches ! ” muttered 
Myndert, when they were near enough to perceive 
the nature of the floating object. “ That brazen 
hussy haunts us, as if we had robbed her of gold ! 
Let us set foot on land, and nothing short of a 
deputation from the city council shall ever tempt 
me to wander from my own abode again ! ” 

Ludlow shifted the helm of the boat, and re- 
sumed his course toward the river. He required 
no explanation to tell him more of the nature of 
the artifice by which he had been duped. The 
nicely-balanced tub, the upright spar, and the ex- 
tinguished lantern, with the features of the female 
of the malign smile traced on its horn faces, re- 
minded him, at once, of the false light by which 
the Coquette had been lured from her course, on 
the night she sailed in pursuit of the brigantine. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“ His daughter, and the heir of his kingdom, 

— hath referred herself 
Unto a poor but worthy gentleman.” 

. Cymbeline. 

When Alderman Van Beverout and Ludlow 
drew near to the Lust in Rust, it was already 
dark. Night had overtaken them at some dis- 
tance from the place of landing ; and the moun- 
tain already threw its shadow across the river, 


LA BELLE BARBERIE. 


Ill 


the narrow strip of land that separated it from the 
sea, and far upon the ocean itself. Neither had 
an opportunity of making his observations on the 
condition of things in and about the villa, until 
they ascended nearly to its level, and had even 
entered the narrow but fragrant lawn in its front. 
Just before they arrived at the gate which opened 
on the latter, the alderman paused, and addressed 
his companion with more of the manner of their 
ancient confidence than he had manifested dur- 
ing the few preceding days of their intercourse. 

“You must have observed that the events of 
this little excursion on the water have been rath- 
er of a domestic than of a public character,” he 
said. “ Thy father was a very ancient and much- 
esteemed friend of mine, and I am far from cer- 
tain that there is not some affinity between us, in 
the way of intermarriages. Thy worthy mother, 
who is a thrifty woman and a small talker, had 
some of the blood of my own stock. It would 
grieve me to see the good understanding, which 
these recollections have created, in any manner 
interrupted. I admit, sir, that revenue is to 
the state what the soul is to the body — the 
moving and governing principle ; and that, as the 
last would be a tenantless house without its 
inhabitants, so the first would be an exacting and 
troublesome master without its proper products. 
But there is no need of pushing a principle to 
extremities ! If this brigantine be as you appear 
to suspect, and indeed as we have some reason 
from various causes to infer, the vessel called 
the Water- Witch, she might have been a legal 
prize had she fallen into your power ; but now 
that she has escaped, I cannot say what may be 
your intentions ; but were thy excellent father, the 
worthy member of the king’s council, living, so dis- 
creet a man would think much before he opened 
his lips, to say more than is discreet, on this or 
any other subject.” 

“ Whatever course I may believe my duty 
dictates, you may safely rely on my discretion 
concerning the — the remarkable — the very decided 
step which your niece has seen proper to take,” 
returned the young man, who did not make this 
allusion to Alida without betraying, by the tre- 
mor of his voice, how great was her influence still 
over him. “ I see no necessity of violating the 
domestic feelings to which you allude, by aiding 
to feed the ears of the idly curious with the nar- 
rative of her errors.” 

Ludlow stopped suddenly, leaving the uncle to 
infer what he would wish to add. 

“ This is generous, and manly, and like a loy- 
al — lover, Captain Ludlow,” returned the aider- 
man ; “ though it is not exactly what I intended to 


suggest. We will not, however, multiply words 
in the night air — Ha ! when the cat is asleep, the 
mice are seen to play ! Those night-riding, 
horse-racing blacks have taken possession of Ali- 
da’s pavilion; and we may be thankful the poor 
girl’s rooms are not as large as Haerlem Com- 
mon, or we should hear the feet of some hard- 
driven beast galloping about in them.” 

The alderman, in his turn, cut short his speech, 
and started as if one of the spooks of the colony 
had suddenly presented itself to his eyes. His 
language drew the look of his companion toward 
la Cour des Fees; and Ludlow, at the same mo- 
ment as the uncle, caught an unequivocal view of 
la belle Barberie, as she moved before the open 
window of her apartment. The latter was about 
to rush forward, but the hand of Myndert arrested 
the impetuous movement. 

“ Here is more matter for our wits than our 
legs,” observed the cool and prudent burgher. 
“ That was the form of my ward and niece, or the 
daughter of old Etienne Barberie has a double. 
— Francis ! didst thou not see the image of a wom- 
an at the window of the pavilion, or are we de- 
ceived by our wishes ? — I have sometimes been 
deluded in an unaccountable manner, Captain 
Ludlow, when my mind has been thoroughly set 
on the bargain, in the quality of the goods ; for 
the most liberal of us all are subject to mental 
weakness of this nature, when hope is alive ! ” 

“ Certainement, oui!” exclaimed the eager 
valet. “ Quel malheur to be oblige to go on la 
mer, when Mam’selle Alide nevair quit la maison ! 
J’etais sur, que nous nous trompions, car jamais la 
famille de Barberie love to be marins ! ” 

“ Enough, good Francis ; the family of Barbe- 
rie is as earthy as a fox. Go and notify the idle 
rogues in my kitchen that their master is at hand ; 
and remember, that there is no necessity for speak- 
ing'-of all the wonders we have seen on the great 
deep. — Captain Ludlow, we will now join my duti- 
ful niece with as little fracas as possible.” 

Ludlow eagerly accepted the invitation, and in- 
stantly followed the dogmatical and seemingly un- 
moved alderman toward the dwelling. As the lawn 
was crossed, they involuntarily paused a moment 
to look in at the open windows of the pavilion. 

La belle Barberie had ornamented la Cour des 
F6es with a portion of that national taste which 
she inherited from her father. The heavy mag- 
nificence, that distinguished the reign of Louis 
XIV., had scarcely descended to one of the mid- 
dling rank of Monsieur de Barberie, who had con- 
sequently brought with him to the place of his 
exile, merely those tasteful usages which appear 
almost exclusively the property of the people from 


112 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


whom he had sprung, without the encumbrance 
and cost of the more pretending fashions of the 
period. These usages had become blended with 
the more domestic and comfortable habits of Eng- 
lish, or, what is nearly the same thing, of Ameri- 
can life— a union which, when it is found, per- 
haps produces the most just and happy medium 
of the useful and agreeable. Alida was seated 
by a small table of mahogany, deeply absorbed in 
the contents of a little volume that lay before 
her. By her side stood a tea-service, the cups 
and the vessels of which were of the diminu- 
tive size then used, though exquisitely wrought 
and of the most beautiful material. Her dress 
was a neglige suited to her years ; and her whole 
figure breathed that air of comfort, mingled with 
grace, which seems to be the proper quality 
of the sex, and which renders the privacy of an 
elegant woman so attractive and peculiar. Her 
mind was intent on the book, and the little silver 
urn hissed at her elbow, apparently unheeded. 

“ This is the picture I have loved to draw,” 
half-whispered Ludlow, “ when gales and storms 
have kept me on the deck, throughout many a 
dreary and tempestuous night ! When body and 
mind have been impatient of fatigue, this is the 
repose I have most coveted, and for which I have 
even dared to hope ! ” 

“ The China trade will come to something, in 
time, and you are an excellent judge of comfort, 
Master Ludlow,” returned the alderman. “ That 
girl now has a warm glow on her cheek, which 
would seem to swear she never faced a breeze in 
her life ; and it is not easy to fancy that one who 
looks so comfortable has lately been frolicking 
among the dolphins. — 'Let us enter.” 

Alderman Van Beverout was not accustomed 
to use much ceremony in his visits to his niece. 
Without appearing to think any announcement 
necessary, therefore, the dogmatical burgher cool- 
ly opened a door, and ushered his companion into 
the pavilion. 

If the meeting between la belle Alida and her 
guests was distinguished by the affected indiffer- 
ence of the latter, their seeming ease was quite 
equalled by that of the lady. She laid aside her 
book with a calmness that might have been ex- 
pected had they parted but an hour before, and 
which sufficiently assured both Ludlow and her 
uncle that their return was known and their pres- 
ence expected. She simply arose at their en- 
trance, and, with a smile that betokened breeding 
rather than feeling, she requested them to be 
seated. The composure of his niece had the ef- 
fect to throw the alderman into a brown study, 
while the young sailor scarcely knew which to 


admire the most, the exceeding loveliness of a 
woman who was always so beautiful, or her admi- 
rable self-possession in a scene that most others 
would have found sufficiently embarrassing. Alida, 
herself, appeared to feel no necessity for any ex- 
planation ; for, when her guests were seated, she 
took occasion to say, while busied in pouring out 
the tea : 

“ You find me prepared to offer the refresh- 
ment of a cup of delicious bohea. I think my 
uncle calls it the tea of the Caernarvon Castle.” 

“ A lucky ship, both in her passages and her 
wares ! Yes, it is the article you name ; and I 
can recommend it to all who wish to purchase. 
But, niece of mine, will you condescend to ac- 
quaint this commander in her majesty’s service, 
and a poor alderman of her good city of New 
York, how long you may have been expecting our 
company ? ” 

Alida felt at her girdle, and, drawing out a 
small and richly-ornamented watch, she coolly 
examined its hands, as if to learn the hour. 

“We are nine. I think it was past the turn 
of the day, when Dinah first mentioned that this 
pleasure might be expected. But I should also 
tell you that packages which seem to contain let- 
ters have arrived from town.” 

This was giving a new and sudden direction 
to the thoughts of the alderman. He had re- 
frained from entering on those explanations which 
the circumstances seemed to require, because he 
well knew that he stood on dangerous ground, and 
that more might be said than he wished his com- 
panion to hear, no less than from amazement at 
the composure of his ward. He was not sorry, 
therefore, to have an excuse to delay his in- 
quiries, that appeared so much in character as 
that of reading the communications of his busi- 
ness correspondents. Swallowing the contents 
of the tiny cup he held, at a gulp, the eager mer- 
chant seized the packet that Alida now offered ; 
and, muttering a few words of apology to Ludlow, 
he left the pavilion. 

Until now the commander of the Coquette had 
not spoken. Wonder, mingled with indignation, 
sealed his mouth, though he had endeavored to pen- 
etrate the veil which Alida had drawn around her 
conduct and motives, by a diligent use of his eyes. 
During the first few moments of the interview, 
he thought that he could detect, in the midst of 
her studied calmness, a melancholy smile strug- 
gling around her beautiful mouth ; but only once 
had their looks meet, as she turned her full, rich, 
and dark eyes furtively on his face, as if curious 
to know the effect produced by her manner on 
the mind of the young sailor. 


CAPTAIN LUDLOW’S INTERVIEW WITH ALIDA. 


113 


“ Have the enemies of the queen reason to re- 
gret the cruise of the Coquette ? ” said la Belle, 
hurriedly, when she found her glance detected ; 
“ or have they dreaded to encounter a prowess 
that has already proved their inferiority?” 

“ Fear, or prudence, or perhaps I might say 
conscience, has made them wary,” returned Lud- 
low, pointedly emphasizing the latter words. 
“We have run from the Hook to the edge of the 
Grand Bank, and returned without success.” 

“ ’Tis unlucky. But, though the French es- 
caped, have none of the lawless met with punish- 
ment ? There is a rumor among the slaves that 
the brigantine which visited us is an object of 
suspicion to the government ? ” 

“ Suspicion ! — But I may apply to la belle 
Barberie to know whether the character her com- 
mander has obtained be merited ? ” 

Alida smiled, and, her admirer thought, sweet- 
ly as ever. 

“ It would be a sign of extraordinary com- 
plaisance, were Captain Ludlow to apply to the 
girls of the colony for instruction in his duty ! 
We may be secret encouragers of the contraband, 
but, surely, we are not to be suspected of any 
greater familiarity with their movements. These 
hints may compel me to abandon the pleasures of 
the Lust in Rust, and to seek air and health in 
some less exposed situation. Happily the banks 
of the Hudson offer many, that one need be fas- 
tidious indeed to reject.” 

“Among which you count the manor-house of 
Kinderhook ? ” 

Again Alida smiled, and Ludlow thought it 
was triumphantly. 

“The dwelling ofOloffVan Staats is said to 
be commodious, and not badly placed. I have 
seen it — ” 

“ In your images of the future ? ” said the 
young man, observing she hesitated. 

Alida laughed downright. But, immediately 
recovering her self-command, she replied : 

“Not so fancifully. My knowledge of the 
beauties of the house of Mr. Van Staats is confined 
to very unpoetical glimpses from the river, in 
passing and repassing. The chimneys are twisted 
in the most approved style of the Dutch Brabant, 
and, although wanting the stork’s-nest on their 
summits, it seems as if there might be that wom- 
an’s tempter, comfort, around the hearths beneath. 
The offices, too, have an enticing air, for a thrifty 
housewife ! ” 

“ Which office, in compliment to the wor- 
thy patroon, you intend shall not long be va- 
cant ? ” 

Alida was playing with the spoon, curiously 
8 


wrought to represent the stem and leaves of a 
tea-plant. She started, dropped the implement, 
and raised her eyes to the face of her companion. 
The look was steady, and not without an interest 
in the evident concern betrayed by the young 
man. 

“ It will never be filled by me, Ludlow,” was 
the answer, uttered solemnly, and with a decision 
that denoted a resolution affixed. 

“ That declaration removes a mountain ! — 0 
Alida, if you could as easily — ” 

“ Hush ! ” whispered the other, rising and 
standing for a moment in an attitude of intense 
expectation. Her eye became brighter, and the 
bloom on her cheek even deeper than before, 
while pleasure and hope were both strongly de- 
picted on her beautiful face — “ hush ! ” she con- 
tinued, motioning to Ludlow to repress his feel- 
ings. “ Did you hear nothing ? ” 

The disappointed and yet admiring young 
man was silent, though he watched her singularly 
interesting air and lovely features with all the in- 
tenseness that seemed to characterize her own de- 
portment. As no sound followed that which Alida 
had heard or fancied she had heard, she resumed 
her seat, and appeared to lend her attention once 
more to her companion. 

“ You were speaking of mountains ? ” she said, 
scarce knowing what she uttered. “ The passage 
between the bays of Newburg and Tappan has 
scarce a rival, as I have heard from travelled 
men.” 

“ I was indeed speaking of a mountain, but it 
was of one that weighs on my heart. Your in- 
explicable conduct and cruel indifference have 
heaped it on my feelings, Alida. You have said 
that there is no hope for Oloff Van Staats; and 
one syllable, spoken with your native ingenuous- 
ness and sincerity, has had the effect to blow all 
my apprehensions from that quarter to the winds. 
There remains only to account for your absence, 
to resume the whole of your power over one who 
is but too readily disposed to confide in all you 
say or do.” 

La belle Barberie seemed touched. Her glance 
at the young sailor was kinder, and her voice 
wanted some of its ordinary steadiness in the re- 
ply* 

“ That power has then been weakened ? ” 

“ You will despise me if I say no — you will 
distrust me if I say yes.” 

“ Then silence seems the course best adapted 
to maintain our present amity. Surely I heard a 
blow struck, lightly, on the shutter of that win- 
dow? ” 

“ Hope sometimes deceives us. This repeated 


114 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


belief would seem to say that you expect a vis- 
itor ? ” 

A distinct tap on the shutter confirmed the 
impression of the mistress of the pavilion. Alida 
looked at her companion and appeared embar- 
rassed. Her color varied, and she seemed anxious 
to utter something that either her feelings or her 
prudence suppressed. 

“ Captain Ludlow, you have once before been 
an unexpected witness of an interview in la Cour 
des Fees, that has, I fear, subjected me to un- 
favorable surmises. But one manly and generous 
as yourself can have indulgence for the little vani- 
ties of woman. I expect a visit that, perhaps, a 
queen’s officer should not countenance.” 

“Iam no exciseman, to pry into wardrobes 
and secret repositories, but one whose duty it is 
to act only on the high-seas, and against the more 
open violators of the law. If you have any with- 
out, whose presence you desire, let them enter 
without dread of my office. When we meet in a 
more suitable place, I shall know how to take my 
revenge.” 

His companion looked grateful, and bowed 
her acknowledgments. She then made a ringing 
sound by using a spoon on the interior of one of 
the vessels of the tea equipage. The shrubbery 
which shaded a window stirred ; and presently 
the young stranger, already so well known in the 
former pages of this work, and in the scenes of 
the brigantine, appeared in the low balcony. His 
person was scarcely seen, before a light bale of 
goods was tossed past him, into the centre of the 
room. 

“I send my certificate of character as an 
ovant-courrier ,” said the gay dealer in contraband, 
or Master Seadrift, as he was called by the aider- 
man, touching his cap, gallantly, to the mistress 
of la Cour des Fees, and then somewhat more 
ceremoniously to her companion; after which 
he returned the gold-bound covering to its seat, 
on a bed of rich and glossy curls, and sought his 
package. “ Here is one more customer than I 
bargained for, and I look to more than common 
gain! — We have met before, Captain Lud- 
low.” 

“We have, Sir Skimmer of the Seas, and we 
shall meet again. Winds may change, and for- 
tune yet favor the right ! ” 

“We trust to the sea-green lady’s care,” re- 
turned the extraordinary smuggler, pointing with 
a species of reverence, real or affected, to the 
image that was beautifully worked, in rich colors, 
on the velvet of his cap. What has been will be, 
and the past gives a hope for the future. We 
meet, here, on neutral ground, I trust.” 


“ I am the commander of a royal cruiser, sir,” 
haughtily returned the other. 

“ Queen Anne may be proud of her servant ! 
But we neglect our affairs. — A thousand pardons, 
lovely mistress of la Cour des Fees. This meet- 
ing of two rude mariners does a slight to your 
beauty, and little credit to the fealty due the sex. 
Having done with all compliments, I have to offer 
certain articles that never failed to cause the 
brightest eyes to grow more brilliant, and at which 
duchesses have gazed with many longings.” 

“You speak with confidence of your associa- 
tions, Master Seadrift, and rate noble personages 
among your customers as familiarly as if you dealt ; 
in offices of state.” 

“ This skilful servitor of the queen will tell you, ; 
lady, that the wind which is a gale on the Atlan- ' 
tic, may scarce cool the burning cheek of a girl 
on the land, and that the links in life are as cu- 
riously interlocked as the ropes of a ship. The 
Ephesian temple and the Indian wigwam rested 
on the same earth ! ” 

“From which you infer that rank does not 
alter nature. We must admit, Captain Ludlow, 
that Master Seadrift understands a woman’s heart, 
when he tempts her with stores of tissues gay as 
these ! ” 

Ludlow had watched the speakers in silence. 
The manner of Alida was far less embarrassed, 
than when he had before seen her in the smug- 
gler’s company ; and his blood fired, when he saw 
that their eyes met with a secret and friendly in- 
telligence. He had remained, however, with a 
resolution to be calm, and to know the worst. 
Conquering the expression of his feelings by 
a great effort, he answered with an exterior of 
composure, though not without some of that bit- 
terness in his emphasis which he felt at his ! 
heart. 

“ If Master Seadrift has this knowledge, he 
may value himself on his good fortune,” was the 
reply. 

“ Much intercourse with the sex, who are my 
best customers, has something helped me,” re- 
turned the cavalier dealer in contraband. “ Here 
is a brocade, whose fellow is worn openly in 
the presence of our royal mistress, though it 
came from the forbidden looms of Italy ; and the 
ladies of the court return from patriotically dan- 
cing, in the fabrics of home, to please the public 
eye, once in the year, to wear these more agree- 
able inventions, all the rest of it, to please them- 
selves. ’Tell me, why does the Englishman, with 
his pale sun, spend thousands to force a sickly 
imitation of the gifts of the tropics, but because 
he pines for forbidden fruit ? or why does your 



I send my certificate of character as an avant-courrier said the gay dealer in contraband. 














































. ' 


; '• 








•» 





























* • 


- -j 





























































* 



































MASTER SEADRIFT. 


115 


Paris gourmand roll a fig on his tongue, that a 
lazzarone of Naples would cast into his bay, but 
because he wishes to enjoy the bounties of a low 
latitude, under a watery sky ? I have seen an in- 
dividual feast on the eaw sucree of a European 
pine, that cost a guinea, while his palate would 
have refused the same fruit, with its delicious 
compound of acid and sweet, mellowed to ripe- 
ness under a burning sun, merely because he 
could have it for nothing. This is the secret of 
our patronage ; and, as the sex are most liable to 
its influence, we owe them most gratitude.” 

You have travelled, Master Seadrift,” re- 
turned la Belle, smiling, while she tossed the rich 
contents of the bale on the carpet, “ and treat 
of usages as familiarly as you speak of dignities.” 

“ The lady of the sea-green mantle does not 
permit an idle servant. We follow the direction 
of her guiding hand ; sometimes it points our 
course among the isles of the Adriatic, and at 
others on your stormy American coasts. There is 
little of Europe between Gibraltar and the Cattegat 
that I have not visited.” 

“ But Italy has been the favorite, if one may 
judge by the number of her fabrics that you pro- 
duce.” 

“ Italy, France, and Flanders, divide my cus- 
tom ; though you are right in believing the for- 
mer most in favor. Many years of early life did I 
pass on the noble coasts of that romantic region. 
One who protepted and guided my infancy and 
youth even left me for a time under instruction 
on the little plain of Sorrento.” 

“And where can this plain be found ? for the 
residence of so famous a rover may, one day, be- 
come the theme of song, and is likely to occupy 
the leisure of the curious.” 

“ The grace of the speaker maj well excuse 
the irony ! Sorrento is a town on the southern 
shore of the renowned Naples Bay. Fire has 
wrought many changes in that soft but wild coun- 
try ; and if, as religionists believe, the fountains 
of the great deep were ever broken up, and the 
earth’s crust disturbed, to permit its secret 
springs to issue on the surface, this may have 
been one of the spots chosen by him whose touch 
leaves marks that are indelible, in which to show 
his power. The bed of the earth itself, in all that 
region, appears to have been but the vomitings 
of volcanoes ; and the Sorrentine passes his peace- 
able life in the bed of an extinguished crater. ’Tis 
curious to see in what manner the men of the 
middle ages have built their town, on the margin 
of the sea, where the element has swallowed one- 
half the ragged basin, and now they have taken 
the yawning crevices of the tufa for ditches to 


protect their walls ! I have visited many lands, 
and seen Nature in nearly every clime ; but no 
spot has yet presented, in a single view, so pleas- 
ant a combination of natural objects, mingled with 
mighty recollections, as that lovely abode on the 
Sorrentine cliffs ! ” 

“ Recount me these pleasures, that in memory 
seem so agreeable, while I examine further into 
the contents of the bale.” 

The gay young free-trader paused, and seemed 
lost in images of the past. Then, with a melan- 
choly smile, he soon continued : “ Though many 
years are gone,” he said, “I can recall the beau- 
ties of that scene as vividly as if they still stood 
before the eye. Our abode was on the verge of 
the cliffs. In front lay the deep-blue water, and 
on its farther shore was a line of objects such as 
accident or design rarely assembles in one view. 
Fancy thyself, lady, at my side, and follow the 
curvature of the northern shore, as I trace the 
outline of that glorious scene ! That high, moun- 
tainous, and ragged island on the extreme left, is 
modern Ischia. Its origin is unknown, though 
piles of lava lie along its coast, which seems fresh 
as that thrown from the mountain yesterday. 
The long, low bit of land, insulated like its neigh- 
bor, is called Procida, a scion of ancient Greece. 
Its people still preserve, in dress and speech, 
marks of their origin. The narrow strait con- 
ducts you to a high and naked bluff. That is 
the Misenum of old. Here iEneas came to land, 
and Rome held her fleets, and thence Pliny took 
the water, to get a nearer view of the labors of 
the volcano, after its awakening from centuries 
of sleep. In the hollow of the ridge, between 
that naked bluff and the next swell of the moun- 
tain, lie the fabulous Styx, the Elysian fields, and 
the place of the dead, as fixed by the Mantuan. 
More on the height and nearer to the sea, lie, buried 
in the earth, the vast vaults of the Piscina Mira- 
bilis, and the gloomy caverns of the Hundred 
Chambers ; places that equally denote the luxury 
and the despotism of Rome. Nearer to the vast 
pile of castle, that is visible so many leagues, is 
the graceful and winding Baiasan harbor ; and 
against the side of its sheltering hills once lay 
the city of villas. To that sheltered hill, emper- 
ors, consuls, poets, and warriors, crowded from 
the capital, in quest of repose, and to breathe the 
pure air of a spot in which pestilence has since 
made its abode. The earth is still covered with 
the remains of their magnificence, and ruins of 
temples and baths are scattered freely among the 
olives and fig-trees of the peasant. A fainter 
bluff limits the northeastern boundary of the little 
bay. On it once stood the dwellings of emperors. 


116 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


There Caesar sought retirement, and the warm 
springs on its side are yet called the baths of the 
bloody Nero. That small, conical hill, which, as 
you see, possesses a greener and fresher look than 
the adjoining land, is a cone ejected by the cal- 
dron beneath, but two brief centuries since. It 
occupies, in part, the site of the ancient Lucrine 
lake. All that remains of that famous receptacle 
of the epicure is the small and shallow sheet at its 
base, which is separated from the sea by a mere 
thread of sand. More in the rear, and surrounded 
by dreary hills, lie the waters of Avernus. On 
their banks still stand the ruins of a temple, in 
which rites were celebrated to the infernal deities. 
The grotto of the Sibyl pierces that ridge on the 
left, and the Cumaean passage is nearly in its rear. 
The town which is seen a mile to the right, is 
Pozzuoli — a port of the ancients, and a spot now 
visited for its temples of Jupiter and Neptune, its 
mouldering amphitheatre, and its half-buried 
tombs. Here Caligula attempted his ambitious 
bridge, and, while crossing thence to Baise, the 
vile Nero had the life of his own mother assailed. 
It was there, too, that holy Paul came to land, 
when journeying a prisoner to Rome. The small 
but high island, nearly in its front, is Nisida, the 
place to which Marcus Brutus retired after the 
deed at the foot of Pompey’s statue, where he 
possessed a villa, and whence he and Cassius 
sailed to meet the shade and the vengeance of the 
murdered Ceesar, at Philippi. Then comes a 
crowd of sites more known in the middle ages ; 
though just below that mountain, in the back- 
ground, is the famous subterranean road of which 
Strabo and Seneca are said to speak, and through 
which the peasant still daily drives his ass to the 
markets of the modem city. At its entrance is 
the reputed tomb of Virgil, and then commences 
an amphitheatre of white and terraced dwellings. 
This is noisy Napoli itself, crowned with its rocky 
castle of St. Elmo ! The vast plain, to the right, 
is that which held the enervating Capua, and so 
many other cities on its bosom. To this suc- 
ceeds the insulated mountain of the volcano, with 
its summit torn in triple tops. ’Tis said that 
villas and villages, towns and cities, lie buried be- 
neath the vineyards and palaces which crowd its 
base. The ancient and unhappy city of Pompeii 
stood on that luckless plain, which, following the 
shores of the bay, comes next ; and then we take 
up the line of the mountain promontory, which 
forms the Sorrentine side of the water ! ” 

“ One who has had such schooling, should 
know better how to turn it to a good account,” 
said Ludlow, sternly, when the excited smuggler 
ceased to speak. 


“ In other lands men derive their learning 
from books; in Italy, children acquire knowl- 
edge by the study of visible things,” was the un- 
disturbed answer. 

“Some from this country are fond of believing 
that our own bay, these summer skies, and the 
climate in general, should have a strict resem- 
blance to those of a region which lies precisely in 
our own latitude,” observed Alida, so hastily, as 
to betray a desire to preserve the peace between 
her guests. 

“ That your Manhattan and Raritan waters 
are broad and pleasant, none can deny, and that 
lovely beings dwell on their banks, lady,” returned 
Seadrift., gallantly lifting his cap, “ my own senses 
have witnessed. But ’twere wiser to select some 
other point of your excellence, for comparison, 
than a competition with the glorious waters, the 
fantastic and mountain isles, and the sunny hill- 
sides of modem Napoli ! ’Tis certain the lati- 
tude is even in your favor, and that a beneficent 
sun does not fail of its office in one region more 
than in the other. But the forests of America are 
still too pregnant of vapors and exhalations not to 
impair the purity of the native air. If I have 
seen much of the Mediterranean, neither am I a 
stranger to these coasts. While there are so 
many points of resemblance in their climates, 
there are also many and marked causes of differ- 
ence.” 

“ Teach us, then, what forms these distinctions, 
that, in speaking of our bay and skies, we may 
not be led into error.” 

“ You do me honor, lady; I am of no great 
schooling, and of humble powers of speech. Still, 
the little that observation may have taught me, 
shall not be churlishly withheld. Your Italian 
atmosphere, taking the humidity of the seas, is 
sometimes hazy. Still water in large bodies, oth- 
er than in the two seas, is little known in those 
distant countries. Few objects in Nature are 
drier than an Italian river, during those months 
when the sun has most influence. The effect is 
visible in the air, which is in general elastic, dry, 
and obedient to the general laws of the climate. 
There floats less exhalation, in the form of fine 
and nearly invisible vapor, than in these wooded 
regions. At least, so he of whom I spoke, as one 
who guided my youth, was wont to say.” 

“ You hesitate to tell us of our skies, our 
evening light, and of our bay ? ” 

“ It shall be said, and said sincerely — of the 
bays, each seems to have been appropriated to 
that for which Nature most intended it — the one 
is poetic, indolent, and full of graceful and glori- 
ous beauty ; more pregnant of enjoyment than of 


AN INTERRUPTION. 


117 


usefulness. The other will, one day, be the mart 
of the world ! ” 

“ You still shrink from pronouncing on their 
beauty,” said Alida, disappointed in spite of an 
affected indifference to the subject. 

“ It is ever the common fault of old communi- 
ties to overvalue themselves, and to undervalue 
new actors in the great drama of nations, as men 
long successful disregard the effort of new aspi- 
rants for favor,” said Seadrift, while he looked 
with amazement at the pettish eye of the frown- 
ing beauty. “ In this instance, however, Europe 
has not so greatly erred. They who see much 
resemblance between the bay of Naples and this 
of Manhattan, have fertile brains ; since it rests 
altogether on the circumstance that there is much 
water in both, and a passage between an island 
and the main-land, in one, to resemble a passage 
between two islands in the other. This is an 
estuary, that a gulf ; and while the former has the 
green and turbid water of a shelving shore and 
of tributary rivers, the latter has the blue and 
limpid element of the deep sea. In these distinc- 
tions, I take no account of ragged and rocky 
mountains, with the indescribable play of golden 
and rosy light upon their broken surfaces, nor of 
a coast that teems with the recollections of three 
thousand years ! ” 

“I fear to question more. But surely our 
skies may be mentioned, even by the side of those 
you vaunt ? ” 

“ Of the skies truly, you have more reason to 
be confident. I remember that, standing on the 
Capo di Monte, which overlooks the little, pictu- 
resque, and crowded beach of the Marina Grande, 
and Sorrento, a spot that teems with all that is 
poetic in the fisherman’s life, he of whom I have 
spoken once pointed to the transparent vault 
above and said, ‘ There is the moon of America ! ’ 
The colors of the rocket were not more vivid 
than the stars that night, for a Tramontana had 
swept every impurity from the air, far upon the 
neighboring sea. But nights like that are rare, 
indeed, in any clime ! The inhabitants of low 
latitudes enjoy them occasionally ; those of high- 
er, never.” 

“ Then our flattering belief, that these west- 
ern sunsets rival those of Italy, is delusion ? ” 

“Not so, lady. They rival without resem- 
bling. The color of the etui , on which so fair a 
hand is resting, is not softer than the hues one 
sees in the heavens of Italy. But if your evening 
sky wants the pearly light, the rosy clouds, and 
the soft tints which, at that hour, melt into each 
other, across the entire vault of Napoli, it far 
excels in the vividness of the glow, in the depth 


of the transitions, and in the richness of colors. 
Those are only more delicate, while these are 
more gorgeous ! When there shall be less exha- 
lation from your forests, the same causes may 
produce the some effects. Until then America 
must be content to pride herself on an exhibition 
of Nature’s beauty in a new, though scarcely in a 
less pleasing, form.” 

“ Then they who come among us from Europe 
are but half right when they deride the preten- 
sions of our bay and heavens ? ” 

“ Which is much nearer the truth than they 
are wont to be, on the subject of this continent.' 
Speak of the many rivers, the double outlets, the 
numberless basins, and the unequalled facilities 
of your Manhattan harbor ; for in time they will 
come to render all the beauties of the unrivalled 
bay of Naples vain: but tempt not the stran- 
ger to push the comparison beyond. Be grate- 
ful for your skies, lady, for few live under fairer 
or more beneficent. But I tire you with these 
opinions, when here are colors that have more 
charms for a young and lively imagination than 
even the tints of Nature ! ” 

La belle Barberie smiled on the dealer in con- 
traband with an interest that sickened Ludlow ; 
and she was about to reply, in better humor, 
when the voice of her uncle announced his near 
approach. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

“There shall be, in England, seven half-penny loaves 
sold for a penny. The three-hooped pot shall have ten 
hoops ; and I will make it felony to drink small beer.” 

Jack Cade. 

Had Alderman Yan Beverout been a party in 
the preceding dialogue, he could not have uttered 
words more apposite than the exclamation with 
which he first saluted the ears of those in the 
pavilion. 

“ Gales and climates ! ” exclaimed the mer- 
chant, entering with an open letter in his hand. 
“ Here are advices received, by way of Cura<?oa 
and the coast of Africa, that the good ship Musk- 
rat met with foul winds off the Azores, which 
lengthened her passage home to seventeen weeks 
— this is too much precious time wasted between 
markets, Captain Cornelius Ludlow, and ’twill do 
discredit to the good character of the ship, which 
has hitherto always maintained a sound reputation, 
never needing more than the regular seven months 
to make the voyage home and out again. If our 
vessels fall into this lazy train, we shall never get 
a skin to Bristol till it is past use. — What have 


118 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


we here, niece ? Merchandise ! and of a suspicious 
fabric ! — who has the invoice of these goods, and 
in what vessel were they shipped ? ” 

“ These are questions that may be better an- 
swered by their owner,” returned la Belle, point- 
ing gravely, and not without tremor in her voice, 
toward the dealer in contraband, who, at the ap- 
proach of the alderman, had shrunk back as far 
as possible from view. 

Myndert cast an uneasy glance at the un- 
moved countenance of the commander of the roy- 
al cruiser, after having bestowed a brief but un- 
derstanding look at the contents of the bale. 
“ Captain Ludlow, the chaser is chased ! ” he said. 
“ After sailing about the Atlantic, for a week or 
more, like a Jew broker’s clerk running up and 
down the Boom Key at Rotterdam, to get off a 
consignment of damaged tea, we are fairly caught 
ourselves ! To what fall in prices, or change in 
the sentiments of the Board of Trade, am I in- 
debted for the honor of this visit, Master a — a — 
a— gay dealer in green ladies and bright tis- 
sues ? ” 

The .confident and gallant manner of the free- 
trader had vanished. In its place there appeared 
a hesitating and embarrassed air that the indi- 
vidual was not wont to exhibit, blended with 
some apparent indecision, on the subject of his 
reply. 

“ It is the business of those who hazard much, 
in order to minister to the wants of life,” he said, 
after a pause that was sufficiently expressive of 
the entire change in his demeanor, “to seek cus- 
tomers where there is a reputation for liberality. 

I hope my boldness will be overlooked, on ac- 
count of its motive, and that you will aid the 
lady in judging of the value of my articles, and 
of their reasonableness as to price, with your 
own superior experience.” 

Myndert was quite as much astonished by this 
language, and the subdued manner of the smug- 
gler, as Ludlow himself. When he expected the 
heaviest demand on his address, in order to check 
the usual forward and reckless familiarity of 
Seadrift, in order that his connection 'with the 
“ Skimmer of the Seas ” might be as much as pos- 
sible involved in ambiguity, to his own amaze- 
ment he found his purpose more than aided by 
the sudden and extraordinary respect with which 
he was treated. Emboldened, and perhaps a lit- 
tle elevated in his own esteem, by this unex- 
pected deference, which the worthy alderman, 
shrewd as he was in common, did not fail, like 
other men, to impute to some inherent quality of 
his own, he answered with a greater depth of 
voice, and a more protecting air, than he might 


otherwise have deemed it prudent to assume to 
one who had so frequently given him proofs of 
his own fearless manner of viewing things. 

“ This is being more eager as a trader than 
prudent as one who should know the value of 
credit,” he said, making, at the same time, a lofty 
gesture to betoken indulgence for so venial an 
error. “ We must overlook the mistake, Captain 
Ludlow, since, as the young man truly observes in 
his defence, gain acquired in honest traffic is a 
commendable and wholesome pursuit. One who 
appears as if he might not be ignorant of the laws, 
should know that our virtuous queen and her 
wise counsellors have decided that Mother Eng- 
land can produce most that a colonist can con- 
sume ! Ay ! and that she can consume, too, 
most that the colonist can produce 1 ” 

“I pretend not to this ignorance, sir; but, in 
pursuing my humble barter, I merely follow a 
principle of Nature, by endeavoring to provide 
for my own interests. We of the contraband do 
but play at hazard with the authorities. When 
we pass the gantlet unharmed,- we gain ; and, 
when we lose, the servants of the crown find their 
profit. The stakes are equal, and the game should 
not be stigmatized as unfair. Would the rulers 
of the world once remove the unnecessary shac- 
kles they impose on commerce, our calling would 
disappear, and the name of free-trader would 
then belong to the richest and most esteemed 
houses.” 

The alderman drew a long, low whistle. Mo- 
tioning to his companions to be seated, he placed 
his own compact person in a chair, crossed his 
legs with an air of self-complacency, and resumed 
the discourse. 

u These are very pretty sentiments, Master — 
a — a — a — you bear a worthy name no doubt, my 
ingenious commentator on commerce ? ” 

“ They call me Seadrift, when they spare a 
harsher term,” returned the other, meekly de- 
clining to be seated. 

“These are pretty sentiments, Master Sea- 
drift, and they much become a gentleman who 
lives by practical comments on the revenue-laws. 
—This is a wise world, Captain Cornelius Ludlow, 
and in it there are many men whose heads are 
filled, like bales of goods, with a general assort- 
ment of ideas. Hornbooks and primers ! Here 
have Yan Bummel, Schoenbroeck, and Yan der 
Donck, just sent me a very neatly-folded pam- 
phlet, written in good Leyden Dutch, to prove that 
trade is an exchange of what the author calls 
equivalents, and that nations have nothing to do 
but throw open their ports, in order to make a 
millennium among the merchants ! ” 


119 


A DISSERTATION 

There are many ingenious men who enter- 
tain the same opinions,” observed Ludlow, steady 
in his resolution to be merely a quiet observer of 
all that passed. 

“We cannot a cunning head devise, to spoil 
the paper with! Trade is a racer, gentlemen, 
and merchants the jockeys who ride. He who 
carries most weight may lose ; but then nature 
does not give all men the same dimensions, and 
judges are as necessary to the struggles of the 
mart as to those of the course. Go, mount your 
gelding, if you are lucky enough to have one that 
has not been melted into a weasel by the heart- 
less blacks, and ride out to Harlaem Flats, on a 
fine October day, and witness the manner in 
which the trial of speed is made. The rogues of 
riders cut in here, and over there ; now the whip 
and now the spur ; and, though they start fair, 
which is more than can always be said of trade, 
some one is sure to win. When it is neck and 
neck, then the heat is to be gone over, until the 
best bottom gains the prize.” 

Why is it, then, that men of deep reflection 
so often think that commerce flourishes most 
when least encumbered ?” 

“ Why is one man born to make laws, and 
another to break them ’—Does not the horse run 
faster with his four legs free, than when in hop- 
ples ? But in trade, Master Seadrift, and Captain 
Cornelius Ludlow, each of us is his own jockey ; 
and, putting the aid of custom-house laws out of 
the question, just as Nature has happened to make 
him. Fat or lean, big bones or fine bones, he 
must get to the goal as well as he can. There- 
fore your heavy weights call out for sand-bags 
and belts, to make all even. That the steed may 
be crushed with his load, is no proof that his 
chance of winning will not be better by bringing 
all the riders to the same level.” * 

“But to quit these similes,” continued Lud- 
low, “if trade be but an exchange of equiva- 
lents — ” 

“ Beggary and stoppages ! ” interrupted the 
alderman, who was far more dogmatical than 
courteous in argument. “ This is the language of 
men who have read all sorts of books but ledgers. 
Here have I advices from Tongue and Twaddle, 
of London, which state the net proceeds of a 
little adventure, shipped by the brig Moose, that 
reached the river on the 16th of April, ultimo. 

The history of the whole transaction can be put 
in a child’s muff— you are a discreet youth, Cap- 
tain Cornelius ; and as to you, Master Seadrift, 
the affair is altogether out of your line — there- 
fore, as I was observing, here are the items, made 
only a fortnight since, in the shape of a mem- 


ON SMUGGLING. 

orandum;” while speaking, the alderman had 
placed his spectacles and drawn his tablets from 
a pocket. Adjusting himself to the light, he 
continued: “Paid bill of Sand, Furnace, and 
Glass, for beads, L. 3. 2. 6.— Package and box, 
1. lOf— Shipping charges, and freight, 11. 4.— 
Insurance, averaged at, 1. 5.— Freight, charges, 
and commission of agent among Mohawks, L. 10. 
—Do. do. do. of shipment and sale of furs, in 
England, L. 7. 2. Total of costs and charges, L. 
20. 1 9. 1£, all in sterling money. Note, sale of 
furs, to Frost and Rich, net avails, L. 196. 11. 3. 
—Balance, as per contra, L. 175. 12 5£.— Avery 
satisfactory equivalent this, Master Cornelius, to 
appear on the books of Tongue and Twaddle, 
where I stand charged with the original invest- 
ment of L. 20. 19. 1* ! How much the empress 
of Germany may pay the firm of Frost and Rich 
for the articles, does not appear.” 

“Nor does it appear that more was got for 
your beads, in the Mohawk country, than they 
were valued at there, or was paid for the skins 
than they were worth where they were produced.” 

“ Whe— w— w— w ! ” whistled the merchant, 
as he returned the tablets to his pocket. 

“ One would think that thou hadst been study- 
ing the Leyden pamphleteer, son of my old friend ! 
If the savage thinks so little of his skins, and so 
much of my beads, I shall never take the pains to 
set him right ; else, always by permission of the 
Board of Trade, we shall see him, one day, turn- 
ing his bark canoe into a good ship, and going in 
quest of his own ornaments. Enterprise and voy- 
ages ! Who knows but that the rogue would see 
fit to stop at London, even ; in which case the 
mother-country might lose the profit of the sale 
at Vienna, and the Mohawk set up his carriage, 
on the difference in the value of markets ! Thus 
you see, in order to run a fair race, the horses 
must start even, carry equal weights, and, after 
all, one commonly wins. Your metaphysics are 
no better than so much philosophical gold leaf, 
which a cunning reasoner beats out into a sheet 
as large as the broadest American lake, to make 
dunces believe the earth can be transmuted into 
the precious material ; while a plain practical 
man puts the value of the metal into his pocket 
in good current coin.” 

“ And yet I hear you complain that Parlia- 
ment has legislated more than is good for trade, 
and speak in a manner of the proceedings at 
home, that, you will excuse me for saying, would 
better become a Hollander than a subject of the 
crown.” 

“ Have I not told you, that the horse will run 
faster without the rider than with a pack-saddle 


120 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


on his back ? Give your own jockey as little, 
and your adversary’s as much weight as you cau, 
if you wish to win. I complain of the borough- 
men, because they make laws for us, and not for 
themselves. As I often tell my worthy friend, 
Alderman Gulp, eating is good for life, but the 
surfeit makes a will necessary.” 

“ From all which I infer, that the opinions of 
your Leyden correspondent are not those of Mr. 
Yan Beverout.” 

The alderman laid a finger on his nose, and 
looked at his companions, for a moment, without 
answering. 

“ Those Leydeners are a sagacious breed ! If 
the United Provinces had but ground to stand 
on, they would, like the philosopher who boasted 
of his lever, move the world ! The sly rogues 
think that the Amsterdammers have naturally an 
easy seat, and they wish to persuade all others 
to ride bare- back. I shall send a pamphlet up 
into the Indian country, and pay some scholar to 
have it translated into the Mohawk tongue, in or- 
der that the famous chief Schendoh, when the 
missionaries shall have taught him to read, may 
entertain right views of equivalents ! I am not 
certain that I may not make the worthy divines a 
present to help the good fruits to ripen.” 

The alderman leered round upon his auditors, 
and, folding his hands meekly on his breast, he 
appeared to leave his eloquence to work its own 
effects. 

“ These opinions favor but little the occupa- 
tion of the — the gentleman — who now honors 
us with his company,” said Ludlow, regarding 
the gay-looking smuggler with an eye that showed 
how much he was embarrassed to find a suitable 
appellation for one whose appearance was so 
much at variance with his pursuits. “ If restric- 
tions are necessary to commerce, the lawless 
trader is surely left without an excuse for his call- 
ing.” 

“ I as much admire your discretion in practice 
as the justice of your sentiments in theory, Cap- 
tain Ludlow,” returned the alderman. “ In a 
rencontre on the high seas, it would be your du- 
ty to render captive the brigantine of this person ; 
but, in what may be called the privacy of domes- 
tic retirement, you are content to ease your mind 
in moralities ! I feel it my duty, too, to speak 
on this point, and shall take so favorable an oc- 
casion, when all is pacific, to disburden myself of 
some sentiments that suggest themselves very 
naturally under the circumstances.” Myndert 
then turned himself toward the dealer in contra- 
band, and continued, much in the manner of a 
city magistrate reading a lesson of propriety to 


some disturber of the peace of society. “You 
appear here, Master Seadrift,” he said, “ under 
what, to borrow a figure from your profession, 
may be called false colors. You bear the coun- 
tenance of one who might be a useful subject, and 
yet are you suspected of being addicted to cer- 
tain practices which — I will not say they are dis- 
honest or even discreditable — for on that head 
the opinions of men are much divided, but which 
certainly have no tendency to assist her majesty in 
bringing her wars to a glorious issue, by securing 
to her European dominions that monopoly of trade 
by which it is her greatest desire to ease us of 
the colonies of looking any further after our par- 
ticular interests, than beyond the doors of her 
own custom-houses. This is an indiscretion, to 
give the act its gentlest appellation ; and I regret 
to add, it is accompanied by certain circumstances 
which rather heighten than lessen the delinquen- 
cy.” The alderman paused a moment to observe 
the effect of his admonition, and to judge, by the 
eye of the free-trader, how much further he might 
push his artifice ; but perceiving, to his own 
surprise, that the other bent his face to the floor, 
and stood like one rebuked, he took courage to 
proceed. “You have introduced into this por- 
tion of my dwelling, which is exclusively inhabit- 
ed by my niece, who is neither of a sex nor of 
years to be legally arraigned for any oversight 
of this nature, sundries of which it is the pleas- 
ure of the queen’s advisers that her subjects in 
the colonies should not know the use, since, in 
the nature of fabrications, they cannot be sub- 
mitted to the supervising care of the ingenious 
artisans of the mother island. Woman, Master 
Seadrift, is a creature liable to the influence of 
temptation, and in few things is she weaker than 
in her efforts to resist the allurements of articles 
which may aid in adorning her person. My niece, 
the daughter of Etienne Barberie, may also have 
an hereditary weakness on this head, since the 
females of France study these inventions more 
than those of some other countries. It is not 
my intention, however, to manifest any unreason- 
able severity ; since, if old Etienne has communi- 
cated any hereditary feebleness on the subject of 
fancy, he has also left his daughter the means 
of paying for it. Hand in your account, there- 
fore, and the debt shall be discharged, if debt 
has been incurred. And this brings me to the 
last and the gravest of your offences. 

“ Capital is no doubt the foundation on which 
a merchant builds his edifice of character,” con- 
tinued Myndert, after taking another jealous sur- 
vey of the countenance of him he addressed ; “ but 
credit is the ornament of its front. This is a 


AN APPOSITE PARALLEL. 


121 


corner-stone ; that the pilasters and carvings by 
which the building is rendered pleasant ; some- 
times, when age has undermined the basement, 
it is the columns on which the superstructure 
rests, or even the roof by which the occupant is 
sheltered. It renders the rich man safe, the 
dealer of moderate means active and respectable, 
and it causes even the poor man to hold up his 
head in hope ; though I admit that buyer and 
seller need both be wary, when it stands unsup- 
ported by any substantial base. This being the 
value of credit, Master Seadrift, none should as- 
sail it without sufficient cause, for its quality is 
of a nature too tender for rude treatment. I 
learned, when a youth, in my travels in Holland, 
through which country, by means of the treck- 
schuyts, I passed with sufficient deliberation to 
profit by what was seen, the importance of avoid- 
ing, on all occasions, bringing credit into disre- 
pute. As one event that occurred offers an appo- 
site parallel to what I have now to advance, I 
shall make a tender of .the facts in the way of 
illustration. The circumstances show the awful 
uncertainty of things in this transitory life, Cap- 
tain Ludlow, and forewarn the most vigorous and 
youthful, that the strong arm may be cut down, 
in his pride, like the tender plant of the fields ! 
The banking-house of Van Gelt and Van Stopper, 
in Amsterdam, had dealt largely in the securities 
issued by the emperor for the support of his wars. 
It happened, at the time, that fortune had favored 
the Ottoman, who was then pressing the city of 
Belgrade with some prospects of success. Well, 
sirs, a head-strong and ill-advised laundress had 
taken possession of an elevated terrace in the* 
centre of the town, in order to dry her clothes. 
This woman was in the act of commencing the 
distribution of her linens and muslins, with the 
break of day, when the Mussulmans awoke the 
garrison by a rude assault. Some, who had been 
posted in a position that permitted of retreat, 
having seen certain bundles of crimson, and green, 
and yellow, on an elevated parapet, mistook them 
for the heads of so many Turks ; and they spread 
the report, far and near, that a countless band 
of infidels, led on by a vast number of sherriffes 
in green turbans, had gained the heart of the 
place, before they were induced to retire. The 
rumor soon took the shape of a circumstantial 
detail, and, having reached Amsterdam, it caused 
the funds of the imperialists to look down. 
There was much question, on the exchange, con- 
cerning the probable loss of Van Gelt and Van 
Stopper in consequence. Just as speculation 
was at its greatest height on this head, the mon- 
key of a Savoyard escaped from its string, and 


concealed itself in a nut-shop, a few doors dis- 
tant from the banking-house of the firm, where a 
crowd of Jew boys collected to witness its antics. 
Men of reflection, seeing what they mistook for a 
demonstration on the part of the children of the 
Israelites, began to feel uneasiness for their own 
property. Drafts multiplied; and the worthy 
bankers, in order to prove their solidity, disdained 
to shut th6ir doors at the usual hour. Money 
was paid throughout the night ; and before noon 
on the following day Van Gelt had cut his throat, 
in a summer-house that stood on the banks of 
the Utrecht canal; and Van Stopper was seen 
smoking a pipe, among strong boxes that were 
entirely empty. At two o’clock, the post brought 
the intelligence that the Mussulmans were re- 
pulsed, and that the laundress was hanged ; though 
I never knew exactly for what crime, as she cer- 
tainly was not a debtor of the unhappy firm. 
These are some of the warning events of life, 
gentlemen ; and, as I feel sure of addressing those 
who are capable of making the application, I 
shall now conclude by advising all who hear me 
to great discretion of speech on every matter con- 
nected with commercial character.” 

When Myndert ceased speaking, he threw 
another glance around him, in order to note the 
effect his words had produced, and more particu- 
larly to ascertain whether he had not drawn a 
draft on the forbearance of the free-trader, which 
might still meet with a protest. He was at a loss 
|o account for the marked and unusual deference 
with which he was treated, by one who, while he 
was never coarse, seldom exhibited much com- 
plaisance for the opinions of a man he was in the 
habit of meeting so familiarly, on matters of 
pecuniary interest. During the whole of the 
foregoing harangue, the young mariner of the 
brigantine had maintained the same attitude of 
modest attention ; and when his eyes were per- 
mitted to rise, it was only to steal uneasy looks 
at the face of Alida. La belle Barberie had also 
listened to her uncle’s eloquence with a more 
thoughtful air than common. She met the occa- 
sional glances of the dealer in contraband, with 
answering sympathy ; and, in short, the most in- 
different observer of their deportment might have 
seen that circumstances had created between them 
a confidence and intelligence which, if it were not 
absolutely of the most tender, was unequivocally 
of the most intimate, character. All this Ludlow 
plainly saw, though the burgher had been too 
much engrossed with the ideas he had so com- 
placently dealt out to note the fact. 

“ Now that my mind is so well stored with 
maxims on commerce, which I shall esteem as so 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


1 99 , 

many commentaries on the instructions of my 
Lords of the Admiralty,” observed the captain, 
after a brief interval of silence, “ it may be per- 
mitted to turn our attention to things less meta- 
physical. The present occasion is favorable to in- 
quire after the fate of the shipmate we lost in the 
last cruise ; and it ought not to be neglected.” 

“You speak truth, Mr. Cornelius — the Pa- 
troon of Kinderhook is not a man to fall into the 
sea, like an anker of forbidden liquor, and no 
questions asked. Leave this matter to my dis- 
cretion, sir ; and, trust me, the tenants of the 
third best estate in the colony shall not long be 
without tidings of their landlord. If you will 
accompany Master Seadrift into the other part of 
the villa for a reasonable time, I shall possess 
myself of all the facts that are at all pertinent to 
the right understanding of the case.” 

The commander of the royal cruiser, and the 
young mariner of the brigantine, appeared to 
think that a compliance with this invitation 
would bring about a singular association. The 
hesitation of the latter, however, was far the most 
visible, since Ludlow had coolly determined to 
maintain his neutral character, until a proper mo- 
ment to act, as a faithful servitor of his royal mis- 
tress, should arrive. He knew, or firmly believed, 
that the W ater-Witch again lay in the cove, con- 
cealed by the shadows of the surrounding wood ; 
and, as he had once before suffered by the superior 
address of the smugglers, he was now resolved 
to act with so much caution as to enable him to 
return to his ship in time to proceed against her 
with decision, and, as he hoped, with effect. In 
addition to this motive for artifice, there was that 
in the manner and language of the contraband 
dealer to place him altogether above the ordinary 
men of his pursuit, and indeed to create in his 
favor a certain degree of interest, which the offi- 
cer of the crown was compelled to admit. He 
therefore bowed with sufficient courtesy, and pro- 
fessed his readiness to follow the suggestions of 
the alderman. 

“ We have met on neutral ground, Master 
Seadrift,” said Ludlow to his gay companion, as 
they quitted the saloon of la Cour desFees ; “ and, 
though bent on different objects, we may dis- 
course amicably on the past. The ‘ Skimmer of 
the Seas ’ has a reputation in his way, that almost 
raises him to the level of a seaman distinguished 
in a better service. I will ever testify to his 
skill and coolness as a mariner, however much I 
may lament that those fine qualities have received 
so unhappy a direction.” 

“ This is speaking with a becoming reserva- 
tion for the rights of the crown, and with meet 


respect for the Barons of the Exchequer,” retorted 
Seadrift, whose former, and we may say natural, 
spirit seemed to return, as he left the presence 
of the burgher. “We follow the pursuit, Cap- 
tain Ludlow, in which accident has cast our for- 
tunes. You serve a queen you never saw, and a 
nation who will use you in her need, and despise 
you in her prosperity ; and I serve myself. Let 
reason decide between us.” 

“ I admire this frankness, sir, and have hopes 
of a better understanding between us, now that 
you have done with the mystifications of your 
sea-green woman. The farce has been well en- 
acted; though, with the exception of Oloff Van 
Staats and those enlightened spirits you lead 
about the ocean, it has not made many converts 
to necromancy.” 

The free-trader permitted his handsome mouth 
to relax in a smile. 

“We have our mistress, too,” he said; “but 
she exacts no tribute. All that is gained goes to 
enrich her subjects, while all that she knows is 
cheerfully imparted for their use. If we are obe- 
dient, it is because we have experienced her jus- 
tice and wisdom. I hope Queen Anne deals as 
kindly by those who risk life and limb in her 
cause ? ” 

“ Is it part of the policy of her you follow, to 
reveal the fate of the Patroon ; for though rivals 
in one dear object — or rather I should say, once 
rivals in that object — I cannot see a guest quit my 
ship with so little ceremony, without an interest 
in his welfare.” 

“You make a just distinction,” returned Sea- 
drift, smiling still more meaningly — “ once rivals 
is indeed the better expression. Mr. Yan Staats 
is a brave man, however ignorant he may be of 
the seaman’s art. One who has shown so much 
spirit will be certain of protection from personal 
injury, in the care of the ‘ Skimmer of the 
Seas.’ ” 

“I do not constitute myself the keeper of Mr. 
Yan Staats; still, as the commander of the ship 
whence he has been — what shall I term the man- 
ner of his abduction ? — for I would not willingly 
use, at this moment, a term that may prove dis- 
agreeable — ” 

“ Speak freely, sir, and fear not to offend. 
We of the brigantine are accustomed to divers 
epithets that might startle less practised ears. 
We are not to learn, at this late hour, that in or- 
der to become respectable, roguery must have the 
sanction of government. You were pleased, Cap- 
tain Ludlow, to name the mystifications of the 
Water-Witch ; but you seem indifferent to those 
that are hourly practised near you in the world, 


CAPTAIN LUDLOW’S WARNING. 


123 


and which, without the pleasantry of this of ours, 
have not half its innocence.” 

There is little novelty in the expedient of 
seeking to justify the delinquency of individuals 
by the failings of society.” 

I confess it is rather just than original. 
Triteness and truth appear to be sisters ! And 
yet do we find ourselves driven to this apology, 
since the refinement of us of the brigantine has 
not yet attained to the point of understanding all 
the excellence of novelty in morals.” 

“ I believe there is a mandate of sufficient an- 
tiquity, which bids us to render unto Caesar the 
things which are Caesar’s.” 

“A mandate which our modern Caesars have 
most liberally construed ! I am a poor casuist, 
sir ; nor do I think the loyal commander of the 
Coquette would wish to uphold all that sophistry 
can invent on such a subject. If we begin with 
potentates, for instance, we shall find the Most 
Christian King bent on appropriating as many of 
of his neighbors’ goods to his own use as ambi- 
tion, under the name of glory, can covet; the 
Most Catholic, covering with the mantle of his 
Catholicity a greater multitude of enormities, on 
this very continent, than even charity itself could 
conceal ; and our own gracious sovereign, whose 
virtues and whose mildness are celebrated in 
verse and prose, causing rivers of blood to run, 
in order that the little island over which she rules 
may swell out, like the frog in the fable, to di- 
mensions that Nature has denied, and which will 
one day inflict the unfortunate death that befell 
the ambitious inhabitants of the pool. The gal- 
lows awaits the pickpocket ; but your robber un- 
der a pennant is dubbed a knight ! The man who 
amasses wealth by gainful industry is ashamed of 
his origin ; while he who has stolen from churches, 
laid villages under contribution, and cut throats 
by thousands, to divide the spoils of a galleon or 
a military chest, has gained gold on the highway 
of glory ! Europe has reached an exceeding pass 
of civilization, it may not be denied ; but, before 
society inflicts so severe censure on the acts of 
individuals, notwithstanding the triteness of the 
opinion, I must say it is bound to look more close- 
ly to the example it sets, in its collective charac- 
ter.” 

“ These are points on which our difference of 
opinion is likely to be lasting,” said Ludlow, as- 
suming the severe air of one who had the world 
on his side. “ We will defer the discussion to a 
moment of greater leisure, sir. Am I to learn 
more of Mr. Yan Staats, or is the question of his 
fate to become the subject of a serious official in- 
quiry ? ” 


“ The Patroon of Kinderhook is a bold board- 
er ! ” returned the free-trader, laughing. “ He 
has carried the residence of the lady of the brig- 
antine by a coup-de-main ; and he reposes on his 
laurels ! We of the contraband are merrier in 
our privacy than is thought, and those who join 
our mess seldom wish to quit it.” 

“ There may be occasion to look further into 
its mysteries— until when, I wish you adieu.” 

“ Hold ! ” gayly cried the other, observing 
that Ludlow was about to quit the room— “ Let 
the time of our uncertainty be short, I pray thee. 
Our mistress is like the insect which takes the 
color of the leaf on which it dwells. You have 
seen her in her sea-green robe, which she never 
fails to wear when roving over the soundings of 
your American coast; but, in the deep waters, 
her mantle vies with the blue of the ocean’s 
depths. Symptoms of a change, which always 
denote an intended excursion far beyond the in- 
fluence of the land, have been seen ! ” 

“ Harkee, Master Seadrift ! This foolery may 
do, while you possess the power to maintain it. 
But remember that, though the law only punishes 
the illegal trader by confiscation of his goods 
when taken, it punishes the kidnapper with per- 
sonal pains, and sometimes with— death ! And 
more— remember that the line which divides 
smuggling from piracy is easily passed, while the 
return becomes impossible.” 

“ For this generous counsel, in my mistress’s 
name, I thank thee,” the gay mariner replied, 
bowing with a gravity that rather heightened than 
concealed his irony. “ Your Coquette is broad 
in the reach of her booms, and swift on the 
water, Captain Ludlow ; but let her be capricious, 
wilful, deceitful, nay powerful, as she may, she 
shall find a woman in the brigantine equal to all 
her arts, and far superior to all her threats ! ” 

With this prophetic warning on the part of 
the queen’s officer, and cool reply on that of the 
dealer in contraband, the two sailors separated. 
The latter took a book and threw himself into a 
chair, with a well-maintained indifference ; while 
the other left the house, in a haste that was not 
disguised. 

In the mean time, the interview between Aider- 
man Yan Beverout and his niece still continued. 
Minute passed after minute, yet there was no 
summons to the pavilion. The gay young sea- 
man of the^ brigantine had continued his studies 
for some time after the disappearance of Ludlow, 
and he now evidently awaited an intimation that 
his presence was required in la Cour des Fees. 
During these moments of anxiety, the air of the 
free-trader was sorrowful rather than impa- 


124 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


tient ; and, when a footstep was heard at the door 
of the room, he betrayed symptoms of strong 
and uncontrollable agitation. It was the female 
attendant of Alida who entered, presented a 
slip of paper, and retired. The eager expect- 
ant read the following words, hastily written in 
pencil : 

“ I have evaded all his questions, and he is 
more than half disposed to believe in necroman- 
cy. This is not the moment to confess the truth, 
for he is not in a condition to hear it, being al- 
ready much disturbed by the uncertainty of what 
may follow the appearance of the brigantine on 
the coast, and so near his own villa. But, be as- 
sured, he shall and will acknowledge claims that 
I know how to support, and which, should I fail 
of establishing, he would not dare to refuse to 
the redoubtable ‘ Skimmer of the Seas.’ Come 
hither, the moment you hear his foot in the pas- 
sage.” 

The last injunction was soon obeyed. The 
alderman entered by one door, as the active fugi- 
tive retreated by another ; and where the weary 
burgher expected to see his guests, he found an 
empty apartment. This last circumstance, how- 
ever, gave Myndert Yan Beverout but little sur- 
prise and no concern, as would appear by the in- 
difference with which he noted the circumstance. 

“ Vagaries and womanhood ! ” thought, rather 
than muttered, the alderman. “ The jade turns 
like a fox in his tracks, and it would be easier to 
convict a merchant who values his reputation, of 
a false invoice, than this minx of nineteen of an 
indiscretion! There is so much of old Etienne 
and his Norman blood in her eye, that one does 
not like to provoke extremities ; but here, when 
I expected Yan Staats had profited by his oppor- 
tunity, the girl looks like a nun at the mention 
of his name. The patroon is no Cupid, we must 
allow ; or, in a week at sea, he would have won 
the heart of a mermaid! — Ay — and here are 
more perplexities, by the return of the Skimmer 
and his brig, and the notions that young Ludlow 
has of his duty. Life and morality ! One must 
quit trade at some time or other, and begin to 
close the books. I must seriously think of strik- 
ing a final balance. If the sum-total was a little 
more in my favor, it should be done to-morrow ! ” 


CHAPTER XXY. 

“ Tliou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me ; 

Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, 

War with good counsel, set the world at naught.” 

Two Gentlemen op Yekona. 

Ludlow quitted the Lust in Rust with a waver- 
ing purpose. Throughout the whole of the pre- 
ceding interview, he had jealously watched the 
eye and features of la belle Barberie ; and he had 
not failed to draw his conclusions from the mien 
that too plainly expressed a deep interest in the 
free-trader. For a time, only, had he been in- 
duced, by the calmness and self-possession with 
which she received her uncle and himself, to be- 
lieve that she had not visited the Water-Witch at 
all ; but when the gay and reckless being who 
governed the movements of that extraordinary 
vessel appeared, he could no longer flatter himself 
with this hope. He now believed that her choice 
for life had been made ; and, while he deplored 
the infatuation which could induce so gifted a 
woman to forget her station and character, he 
was himself too frank not to see that the individ- 
ual who had in so short a time gained this ascen- 
dency over the feelings of Alida, was in many re- 
spects fitted to exercise a powerful influence over 
the imagination of a youthful and secluded female. 

There was a struggle in the mind of the young 
commander, between his duty and his feelings. 
Remembering the artifice by which he had former- 
ly fallen into the power of the smugglers, he had 
taken his precautions so well in the present visit 
to the villa, that he firmly believed he had the 
person of his lawless rival at his mercy. To avail 
himself of this advantage, or to retire and leave him 
in possession of his mistress and his liberty, was 
the point mooted in his thoughts. Though direct 
and simple in his habits, like most of the seamen 
of that age, Ludlow had all the loftier sentiments 
that become a gentleman. He felt keenly for 
Alida, and he shrank, with sensitive pride, from 
incurring the imputation of having acted under 
the impulses of disappointment. To these mo- 
tives of forbearance, was also to be added the in- 
herent reluctance which, as an officer of rank, he 
felt to the degradation of being employed in a 
duty that more properly belongs to men of less 
elevated ambition. He looked on himself as a de- 
fender of the rights and glory of his sovereign, 
and not as a mercenary instrument of those who 
collected her customs ; and though he would not 
have hesitated to incur any rational hazard, in cap- 
turing the vessel of the smuggler, or in making 
captives of all or any of her crew on their proper 
element, he disliked the appearance of seeking a 


AN UNOBSERVED WITNESS. 


125 


solitary individual on the land. In addition to 
this feeling, tnere was his own pledge that he met 
the proscribed dealer in contraband on neutral 
ground. Still the officer of the queen had his or- 
ders, and he could not shut his eyes to the gen- 
eral obligations of duty. The brigantine was 
known to inflict so much loss on the revenue of 
the crown, more particularly in the other hemi- 
sphere, that an especial order had been issued by 
the admiral of the station for her capture. Here, 
then, was an opportunity of depriving the vessel 
of that masterspirit which, notwithstanding the 
excellence of its construction, had alone so long 
enabled it to run the gantlet of a hundred cruisers 
with impunity. Agitated by these contending 
feelings and reflections, the young sailor left the 
door of the villa, and came upon its little lawn, in 
order to reflect with less interruption, and, in- 
deed, to breathe more freely. 

The night had advanced into the first watch 
of the seaman. The shadow of the mountain, 
however, still covered the grounds of the villa, 
the river, and the shores of the Atlantic, with a 
darkness that was deeper than the obscurity which 
dimmed the surface of the rolling ocean beyond. 
Objects were so indistinct as to require close 
and steady looks to ascertain their character, 
while the setting of the scene might be faintly 
traced by its hazy and indistinct outlines. The 
; curtains of la Cour des Fees had been drawn, and, 

I though the lights were still shining within, the 
eye could not penetrate the pavilion. Ludlow 
gazed about him, and held his way reluctantly 
toward the water. 

In endeavoring to conceal the interior of 
her apartment from the eyes of those without, 
Alida had suffered a corner of the drapery to re- 
main open. When Ludlow reached the gate that 
led to the landing, he turned to take a last look 
at the villa ; and, favored by his new position, he 
caught a glimpse, through the opening, of the 
person of her who was still uppermost in his 
thoughts. 

La belle Barberie was seated at the little table 
by whose side she had been found earlier in the 
evening. An elbow rested on the precious wood, 
and one fair hand supported a brow that was 
thoughtful beyond the usual 'character of its ex- 
pression, if not melancholy. The commander of 
the Coquette felt the blood rushing to his heart, 
for he fancied that the beautiful and pensive 
countenance was that of a penitent. It is prob- 
able that the idea quickened his drooping hopes ; 
for Ludlow believed it might not yet be too late 
to rescue the woman he so sincerely loved, from 
the precipice over which she was suspended. 


The seemingly irretrievable step already taken 
was forgotten; and the generous young sailor 
was about to rush back to la Cour des Fees, to 
implore its mistress to be just to herself, when 
the hand fell from her polished brow, and Alida 
raised her face, with a look which denoted that 
she was no longer alone. The captain drew back 
to watch the issue. 

When Alida lifted her eyes, it was in kind- 
ness, and with that frank ingenuousness with 
which an unperverted female greets the counte- 
nance of those who have her confidence. She 
smiled, though still in sadness rather than in 
pleasure ; and she spoke, but the distance prevent- 
ed her words from being audible. At the next 
instant Seadrift moved into the space visible 
through the half-drawn drapery, and took her 
hand. Alida made no effort to withdraw ; but, 
on the contrary, she looked up into his face with 
still less equivocal interest, and appeared to listen 
to his voice with an absorbed attention. The 
gate swung violently open, and Ludlow had 
reached the margin of the river before he again 
paused. 

The barge of the Coquette was found where 
her commander had ordered his people to lie con- 
cealed, and he was about to enter it, when the 
noise of the little gate, again shutting with the 
wind, induced him to cast a look behind. A hu- 
man form was distinctly to be seen, against the 
light walls of the villa, descending toward the 
river. The men were commanded to keep close, 
and, withdrawing within the shadow of a fence, 
the captain waited the approach of the new comer. 

As the unknown person passed, Ludlow recog- 
nized the agile form of the free-trader. The lat- 
ter advanced to the margin of the river, and 
gazed warily about him for several minutes. A 
low but distinct note* on a common ship’s call, 
was then heard. The summons was soon suc- 
ceeded by the appearance of a small skiff, which 
glided out of the grass on the opposite side of the 
stream, and approached the spot where Seadrift 
awaited its arrival. The free-trader sprang light- 
ly into the little boat, which immediately began to 
glide out of the river. As the skiff passed the 
spot where he stood, Ludlow saw that it was 
pulled by a single seaman ; and, as his own boat 
was manned by six lusty rowers, he felt that the 
person of the man whom he so much envied was 
at length fairly and honorably in his power. We 
shall not attempt to analyze the emotion that was 
ascendant in the mind of the young officer. It is 
enough for our purpose to add, that he was soon 
in his boat and in full pursuit. 

As the course to be taken by the barge was 


i2a 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


diagonal rather than direct, a few powerful strokes 
of the oars brought it so near the skiff, that Lud- 
low, by placing his hand on the gunwale of the lat- 
ter, could arrest its progress. 

“ Though so lightly equipped, fortune favors 
you less in boats than in larger craft, Master Sea- 
drift,” said Ludlow, when, by virtue of a strong 
arm, he had .drawn his prize so near as to find 
himself seated within a few feet of his prisoner. 
“ We meet on our proper element, where there 
can be no neutrality between one of the contra- 
band and a servant of the queen.” 

The start, the half- repressed exclamation, and 
the momentary silence, showed that the captive 
had been taken completely by surprise. 

“I admit your superior dexterity,” he at 
length said, speaking low and not without agita- 
tion. “Iam your prisoner, Captain Ludlow ; and 
I would now wish to know your intentions in dis- 
posing of my person ? ” 

“ That is soon answered. You must be con- 
tent to take the homely accommodations of the 
Coquette for the night, instead of the more luxu- 
rious cabin of your Water-Witch. What the au- 
thorities of the province may decide to-morrow, 
it exceeds the knowledge of a poor commander in 
the navy to say.” 

“ The Lord Cornbury has retired to — ? ” 

“ A jail,” said Ludlow, observing that the 
other spoke more like one who mused than like 
one who asked a question. “ The kinsman of 
our gracious queen speculates on the chances of 
human fortune, within the walls of a prison. His 
successor, the brigadier Hunter, is thought to 
have less sympathy for the moral infirmities of 
human nature ! ” 

“We deal lightly with dignities ! ” exclaimed 
the captive, with all his former gayety of tone and 
manner. “ You have your revenge for some per- 
sonal liberties that were certainly taken, not a 
fortnight since, with this boat and her crew ; still, 
I much mistake your character if unnecessary 
severity forms one of its features. May I com- 
municate with the brigantine ? ” 

“ Freely — when she is once in the care of a 
queen’s officer.” 

“ Oh, sir, you disparage the qualities of my 
mistress, in supposing there exists a parallel with 
your own ! The Water-Witch will go at large till 
a far different personage shall become your cap- 
tive. — May I communicate with the shore ? ” 

“ To that there exists no objection — if you will 
point out the means.” 

“I have one, here, who will prove a faithful 
messenger.” 

“ Too faithful to the delusion which governs 


all your followers ! Your man must be your com- 
panion in the Coquette, Master Seadrift, though,” 
and Ludlow spoke in melancholy, “ if there be 
any on the land who take so near an interest in 
your welfare as to find more Sorrow in uncertain- 
ty than in the truth, one of my own crew, in any 
of whom confidence may be placed, shall do your 
errand.” 

“ Let it be so,” returned the free-trader, as if 
satisfied that he could, in reason, expect no more. 
“ Take this ring to the lady of yonder dwelling,” 
he continued, when Ludlow had selected the mes- 
senger, “ and say that he who sends it is about to 
visit the cruiser of Queen Anne in company with 
her commander. Should there be question of the 
motive, you can speak to the manner of my ar- 
rest.” 

“ And mark me, fellow — ” added the captain ; 
“that duty done, look to the idlers on the shore, 
and see that no boat quits the river, to apprise 
the smugglers of their loss.” 

The man, who was armed in the fashion of a 
seaman on boat duty, received these orders with 
the customary deference ; and, the barge having 
drawn to the shore for that purpose, he landed. 

“ And now, Master Seadrift, having thus far 
complied with your wishes, I may expect you will 
not be deaf to mine. Here is a seat at your ser- 
vice in my barge, and I confess it will please me 
to see it occupied.” 

As the captain spoke, he reached forth an 
arm, partly in natural complaisance, and partly 
with a carelessness that denoted some conscious- ' 
ness of the difference in their rank, both to aid 
the other to comply with his request, and, at 
need, to enforce it. But the free-trader seemed 
to repel the familiarity ; for he drew back, at 
firs.t, like one who shrank sensitively from the con- 
tact, and then, without touching the arm that was 
extended with a purpose so equivocal, he passed 
lightly from the skiff into the barge, declining 
assistance. The movement was scarcely made, 
before Ludlow quitted the latter, and occupied 
the place which Seadrift had just vacated. He 
commanded one of his men to exchange with the 
seaman of the brigantine ; and, having made these 
preparations, he again addressed his prisoner. 

“ I commit you to the care of my cockswain 
and these worthy tars, Master Seadrift. We 
shall steer different ways. You will take pos- 
session of my cabin, where all will be at your 
disposal ; ere the middle watch is called, I shall 
be there to prevent the pennant from coming 
down, and your sea-green flag turning the peo- 
ple’s heads from their allegiance.” 

Ludlow then whispered his orders to his cock- 














•** 










- X 














.* 


<v V • 'X;.yk ' : *x ■ 

, ■ h*< /■ • 

- r ' >** ♦ • 


V 























it ; 

i 

- • 


*’ V 


















- 




























X’X- 










« 








) 














s 


A '• 

















'V. 


•Vi' 1 ! 


- ; V 


















-• 4 r 


•5 V- 












* 












■$$ y. 








■ : n 'X. 














. .• . 


<• > 


h 






isi 






: 





























« M » . 














♦ ■ « 




































































* * 





















“ The steel had no sooner touched the compact yarns, than a dazzling glare of light shot 

into the face of him who held it.” 


The Water-Witch, p. 127 



A SECRET CRUISE. 


127 


swain, and they separated. The barge proceeded 
to the mouth of the river, with the long and 
stately sweep of the oars that marks the progress 
of a man-of-war’s boat ; while the skiff followed 
noiselessly, and, aided by its color and dimensions, 
nearly invisible. 

When the two boats entered the waters of 
the bay, the barge held on its course toward the 
distant ship ; while the skiff inclined to the right, 
and steered directly for the bottom of the cove. 
The precaution of the dealer in contraband had 
provided his little boat with muffled sculls; and 
Ludlow, when he was enabled to discover the 
fine tracery of the lofty and light spars of the 
Water-Witch, as they rose above the tops of the 
dwarf trees that line the shore, had no reason to 
think his approach was known. Once assured 
of the presence and position of the brigantine, he 
was enabled to make his advances with all the 
caution that might be necessary. 

Some ten or fifteen minutes were required to 
| bring the skiff beneath the bowsprit of the beau- 
; tiful craft, without giving the alarm to those who 
doubtless were watching on her decks. The suc- 
cess of our adventurer, however, appeared to be 
complete ; for he was soon holding by the cable, 
and not the smallest sound of any kind had been 
heard in the brigantine. Ludlow now regretted 
he had not entered the cove with his barge ; for, 
so profound and unsuspecting was the quiet of 
the vessel, that he doubted not his ability to have 
carried her by a coup-de-main. Yexed by his 
oversight, and excited by the prospects of success, 
he began to devise those expedients which would 
naturally suggest themselves to a seaman in his 
situation. 

The wind was southerly, and, though not 
strong, it was charged with the dampness and 
heaviness of the night air. As the brigantine 
lay protected from the influence of the tides, she 
obeyed the currents of the other element ; and, 
while her bows looked outward, her stern pointed 
toward the bottom of the basin. The distance 
from the land was not fifty fathoms, and Ludlow 
did not fail to perceive that the vessel rode by a 
kedge, and that her anchors, of which there was a 
good provision, were all snugly stowed. These 
facts induced the hope that he might separate the 
hawser that alone held the brigantine, which, in 
the event of his succeeding, he had every reason 
to believe would drift ashore, before the alarm 
could be given to her crew, sail set, or an anchor 
let go. Although neither he nor his companion 
| possessed any other implement to effect this ob- 
j ject than the large seaman’s knife of the latter, 
the temptation was too great not to make the 


trial. The project was flattering ; for, though the 
vessel in that situation would receive no serious 
injury, the unavoidable delay of heaving her off 
the sands would enable his boats, and perhaps 
the ship herself, to reach the place in time to 
secure their prize. The bargeman was asked for 
his knife, and Ludlow himself made the first cut 
upon the solid and difficult mass. The steel had 
no sooner touched the compact yarns, than a daz- 
zling glare of light shot into the face of him who 
held it. Recovering from the shock and rubbing 
his eyes, our startled adventurer gazed upward, 
with that consciousness of wrong which assails 
us when detected in any covert act, however laud- 
able may be its motive ; a sort of homage that 
Nature, under every circumstance, pays to loyal 
dealings. 

Though Ludlow felt, at the instant of this in- 
terruption, that he stood in jeopardy of his life, 
the concern it awakened was momentarily lost in 
the spectacle before him. The bronzed and un- 
earthly features of the image were brightly illumi- 
nated ; and, while her eyes looked on him steadily, 
as if watching his smallest movement, her malign 
and speaking smile appeared to turn his futile 
effort into scorn ! There was no need to bid the 
seaman at the oars do his duty. No sooner did 
he catch the expression of that mysterious face, 
than the skiff whirled away from the spot, like a 
seafowl taking wing under alarm. Though Lud- 
low at each moment expected a shot, even the 
imminence of the danger did not prevent him 
from gazing, in absorbed attention, at the image. 
The light by which it was illumined, though con- 
densed, powerful, and steadily cast, wavered a 
little, and exhibited her attire. Then the captain 
saw the truth of what Seadrift had asserted ; for 
by some process of the machine into which he 
had not leisure to inquire, the sea-green mantle 
had been changed for a slighter robe of the azure 
of the deep waters. As if satisfied with having 
betrayed the intention of the sorceress to depart, 
the light immediately vanished. 

“ This mummery is well maintained,” muttered 
Ludlow, when the skiff had reached a distance 
that assured him of safety. “ Here is a symptom 
that the rover means soon to quit the coast. The 
change of dress is some signal to his superstitious 
and deluded crew. It is my task to disappoint 
his mistress, as he terms her, though it must be 
confessed that she does not sleep at her post.” 

During the ten succeeding minutes, our foiled 
adventurer had leisure, no less than motive, to 
feel how necessary is success to any project whose 
means admit of dispute. Had the hawser been 
cut and the brigantine stranded, it is probable 


128 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


that the undertaking of the captain would have 
been accounted among those happy expedients 
which, in all pursuits, are thought to distinguish 
the mental efforts of men particularly gifted by 
Nature; while, under , the actual circumstances, 
he who would have reaped all the credit of so 
felicitous an idea, was mentally chafing with the 
apprehension that his unlucky design might be- 
come known. His companion was no other than 
Robert Yarn, the foretop-man, who, on a former 
occasion, had been heard to affirm that he had 
already enjoyed so singular a view of the lady of 
the brigantine, while assisting to furl the foretop- 
sail of the Coquette. 

“ This has been a false board, Master Yarn,” 
observed the captain, when the skiff was past the 
entrance of the cove, and some distance down the 
bay; “for the credit of our cruise, we will not 
enter the occurrence in the log. You understand 
me, sir ; I trust a word is sufficient for so shrewd 
a wit ? ” 

“ I hope I know my duty, your honor, which 
is to obey orders, though it may break owners,” 
returned the topman. “ Cutting a hawser with a 
knife is but slow work in the best of times ; but 
though one who has little right to speak in the 
presence of a gentleman so well taught, it is my 
opinion that the steel is not yet sharpened which 
is to part any rope aboard yon rover, without the 
consent of the black-looking woman under her 
bowsprit.” 

“ And what is the opinion of the berth-deck 
concerning this strange brigantine, that we have 
so long been following without success ? ” 

“ That we shall follow her till the last biscuit 
is eaten, and the scuttle-butt shall be dry, with 
no better fortune. It is not my business to teach 
your honor, but there is not a man in the ship 
who ever expects to be a farthing the better for 
her capture. Men are of many minds concerning 
the £ Skimmer of the Seas ; ’ but all are agreed that, 
unless aided by some uncommon luck, which may 
amount to the same thing as being helped by him 
who seldom lends a hand to any honest under- 
taking, he is altogether such a seaman as another 
like him does not sail the ocean ! ” 

“ I am sorry that my people should have rea- 
son to think so meanly of our own skill. The 
ship has not yet had a fair chance. Give her an 
open sea, and a capful of wind, and she’ll defy 
all the black women that the brigantine can stow. 
As to your ‘ Skimmer of the Seas,’ man or devil, 
he is our prisoner.” 

“ And does your honor believe that the trim- 
built and light-sailing gentleman we overhauled 
in this skiff is in truth that renowned rover ? ” 


asked Yarn, resting on' his sculls in the interest 
of the moment. “ There are some on board the 
ship who maintain that the man in question is tall- 
er than the big tide-waiter at Plymouth, with a 
pair of shoulders — ” 

“ I have reason to know that they are mis- 
taken. If we are more enlightened than our ship- 
mates, Master Yarn, let us be close-mouthed, that 
others do not steal our knowledge — hold, here is 
a crown with the face of King Louis ; he is our 
bitterest enemy, and you may swallow him whole, 
if you please, or take him in morsels, as shall 
best suit your humor. But remember that our 
cruise in the skiff is under secret orders, and the 
less we say about the anchor-watch of the brigan- 
tine the better.” 

Honest Bob took the piece of silver with a 
gusto that no opinions of the marvellous could 
diminish ; and, touching his hat, he did not fail to 
make the usual protestations of discretion. That 
night the messmates and the foretop-man endeav- 
ored in vain to extract from him the particulars 
of his excursion with the captain ; though the 
direct answers to their home questions were only 
evaded by allusions so dark and ambiguous as 
to give to that superstitious feeling of the crew, 
which Ludlow had wished to lull, twice its original 
force. 

Not long after this short dialogue, the skiff 
reached the side of the Coquette. Her command- 
er found his prisoner in possession of his own 
cabin, and, though grave if not sad in demeanor, 
perfectly self-possessed. His arrival had pro- 
duced a deep effect on the officers and men, 
though, like Yarn, most of both classes refused 
to believe that the handsome and gayly-attired 
youth they had been summoned to receive was 
the notorious dealer in contraband. 

Light observers of the forms under which hu- 
man qualities are exhibited too often mistake 
their outward signs. Though it is quite in rea- 
son to believe that he who mingles much in rude 
and violent scenes should imbibe some of their 
rough and repelling aspects, still it would seem 
that, as the stillest waters commonly conceal the 
deepest currents, so the powers to awaken ex- 
traordinary events are not unfrequently cloaked 
under a chastened and sometimes under a cold 
exterior. It has often happened that the most 
desperate and self-willed men are those whose 
mien and manners would give reason to expect 
the mildest and most tractable dispositions ; 
while he who has seemed a lion sometimes proves, 
in his real nature, to be little better than a lamb. 

Ludlow had reason to see that the incredulity 
of his topman had extended to most on board ; 


THE LADY OF THE BRIGANTINE. 


and, as he could not conquer his tenderness on 
the subject of Alida and all that concerned her, 
while on the other hand there existed no motive 
for immediately declaring the truth, he rather 
favored the general impression by his silence. 
First giving some orders of the last importance at 
that moment, he passed into the cabin, and sought 
a private interview with his captive. 

“ That vacant state-room is at your service, 
Master Seadrift,” he observed, pointing to the 
little apartment opposite to the one he occupied 
himself. “We are likely to be shipmates several 
days, unless you choose to shorten the time by 
entering into a capitulation for the Water-Witch, 
in which case — ” 

“ You had a proposition to make.” 

Ludlow hesitated, cast an eye behind him, to 
be certain they were alone, and drew nearer to 
his captive. 

“Sir, I will deal with you as becomes a sea- 
man. La belle Barberie is dearer to me than 
ever woman was before ; dearer, I fear, than ever 
woman will be again. You need not learn that 
circumstances have occurred — Do you love the 
lady? ” 

“Ido.” 

“ And she — fear not to trust the secret to one 
who will not abuse the trust — returns she your 
affection ? ” 

The mariner of the brigantine drew back with 
dignity; then, instantlyrecovering his ease, as 
if fearful he might forget himself, he said with 
warmth : 

“This trifling with woman’s weakness is the 
besetting sin of man ! None may speak of her 
inclinations, Captain Ludlow, but herself. It 
never shall be said that any of the sex had aught 
but fitting reverence for their dependent state, 
their constant and confiding love, their faithful- 
ness in all the world’s trials, and their singleness 
of heart, from me.” 

“ These sentiments do you honor ; and I could 
wish, for your own sake, as well as that of others, 
there was less of contrariety in your character. 
One cannot but grieve — ” 

“You had a proposition for the brigan- 
tine ? ” 

“ I would have said that, were the vessel yielded 
without further pursuit, means might be found 
to soften the blow to those who will otherwise be 
most wounded by her capture.” 

The face of the dealer in contraband had lost 
some of its usual brightness and animation ; the 
color of the cheek was not as rich, and the eye 
was less at ease, than in his former interviews with 
Ludlow. But a smile of security crossed bis fine 


129 

features when the other spoke of the fate of the 
brigantine. 

“ The keel of the ship that is to capture the 
Water-Witch is not yet laid,” he said, firmly; 
“ nor is the canvas that is to drive her through the 
water wove ! Our mistress is not so heedless as 
to sleep when there is most occasion for her ser- 
vices.” 

“ This mummery of a supernatural aid may 
be of use in holding the minds of the ignorant be- 
ings who follow your fortunes, in subjection, but 
it is lost when addressed to me. I have ascer- 
tained the position of the brigantine— nay, I have 
been under her very bowsprit, and so near her 
cut-water as to have examined her moorings. 
Measures are now taking to improve my knowl- 
edge, and to secure the prize.” 

The free-trader heard him without exhibiting 
alarm, though he listened with an attention that 
rendered his breathing audible. 

“ You found my people vigilant ? ” he rather 
carelessly observed, than asked. 

“ So much so that I have said the skiff was 
pulled beneath her martingale without a hail ! 
Had there been means, it would not have required 
many moments to cut the hawser by which she 
rides, and to have laid your beauteous vessel 
ashore ! ” 

The gleam of Seadrift’s eye was like the glance 
of an eagle. It seemed to inquire, and to resent, 
in the same instant. Ludlow shrank from the 
piercing look, and reddened to the brow — wheth- 
er with his recollections, or not, it is unnecessary 
to explain. 

“ The worthy device was thought of! — nay, it 
was attempted 1 ” exclaimed the other, gathering 
confirmation in the consciousness of his compan- 
ion. “ You did not— you could not succeed ! ” 

“ Our success will be proved in the result.” 

“ The lady of the brigantine forgot not her 
charge ! You saw her bright eye— her dark and 
meaning face ! Light shone on that mysterious 
countenance — my words are true, Ludlow; thy 
tongue is silent, but that honest countenance con- 
fesses all ! ” 

The gay dealer in contraband turned away, 
and laughed in his merriest manner. 

“ I knew it would be so,” he continued ; 
“what is the absence of one humble actor from 
her train ? Trust me, you will find her coy as 
ever, and ill-disposed to hold converse with a 
cruiser who speaks so rudely through his cannon. 
Ha ! — here are auditors ! ” 

An officer, to announce the near approach of 
a boat, entered. Both Ludlow and his prisoner 
started at this intelligence, and it was not diffi- 


130 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


cult to fancy, both believed that a message from 
the Water-Witch might be expected. The for- 
mer hastened on deck ; while the latter, notwith- 
standing a self-possession that was so much prac- 
tised, could not remain entirely at his ease. He 
passed into the state-room, and it is more than 
probable that he availed himself of the window 
of its quarter-gallery to reconnoitre those who 
were so unexpectedly coming to the ship. 

But, after the usual hail and reply, Ludlow no 
longer anticipated any proposal from the brigan- 
tine. The answer had been what a seaman would 
call lubberly ; or it wanted that Attic purity that 
men of the profession rarely fail to use on all occa- 
sions, and by the means of which they can tell 
a pretender to their mysteries, with a quickness 
that is almost instinctive. When the short, quick 
“ Boat ahoy ! ” of the sentinel on the gangway, 
was answered by the “ What do you want ? ” of a 
startled respondent in the boat, it was received 
among the crew of the Coquette with such a sneer 
as the tyro, who has taken two steps in any par- 
ticular branch of knowledge, is apt to bestow 
on the blunders of him who has taken but one. 

A deep silence reigned, while a party consist- 
ing of two men and as many females mounted 
the side of the ship, leaving a sufficient number of 
forms behind them in the boat to man its oars. 
Notwithstanding more than one light was held in 
such a manner as would have discovered the 
faces of the strangers had they not all been close- 
ly muffled, the party passed into the cabin with- 
out recognition. 

“ Master Cornelius Ludlow, one might as well 
put on the queen’s livery at once, as to be steer- 
ing in this uncertain manner, between the Co- 
quette and the land, like a protested note sent 
from indorser to indorser, to be paid,” com- 
menced Alderman Van Beverout, uncasing him- 
self in the great cabin with the coolest delibera- 
tion, while his niece sank into a chair unbidden, 
her two attendants standing near in submissive 
silence. “Here is Alida, who has insisted on 
paying so unseasonable a visit, and, what is worse 
still, on dragging me in her train, though I am 
past the day of following a woman about, merely 
because she happens to have a pretty face. The 
hour is unseasonable, and as to the motive — why, 
if Master Seadrift has got a little out of his 
course, no great harm can come of it, while the 
affair is in the hands of so discreet and amiable 
an officer as yourself.” 

The alderman became suddenly mute ; for the 
door of the state-room opened, and the individual 
he had named entered in person. 

Ludlow needed no other explanation than the 


knowledge of the persons of his guests, to under- 
stand the motive of their visit. Turning to Al- 
derman Van Beverout, he said, with a bitterness 
he could not repress : 

“My presence may be intrusive. Use the 
cabin as freely as your own house, and rest as- 
sured that while it is thus honored, it shall be 
sacred to its present uses. My duty calls me to 
the deck.” 

The young man bowed, and hurried from 
the place. As he passed Alida, he caught a 
gleam of her dark and eloquent eye, and he con- 
strued the glance into an expression of grati- 
tude. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

“ If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well 
It were done quickly.” 

Macbeth. 

The words of the immortal poet with which, 
in deference to an ancient usage in the litera- 
ture of the language, we have prefaced the inci- , 
dents to be related in this chapter, are in per- 
fect conformity with that governing maxim of a 
vessel, which is commonly found embodied in its ! 
standing orders, and which prescribes the neces- 
sity of exertion and activity in the least of its 
operations. A strongly-manned ship, like a strong 
armed man, is fond of showing its physical pow- 
er, for it is one of the principal secrets of its effi- 
ciency. In a profession in which there is an un- 
ceasing contest with the wild and fickle winds, ' 
and in which human efforts are to be manifested in 
the control of a delicate and fearful machinery on 
an inconstant element, this governing principle be- 
comes of the last importance. Where “ delay may 
so easily be death,” it soon gets to be a word that 
is expunged from the language ; and there is per- 1 
haps no truth more necessary to be known to all 
young aspirants for naval success than that, 
while nothing should be attempted in a hurry, 
nothing should be done without the last degree 
of activity that is compatible with precision. 

The commander of the Coquette had early' 
been impressed with the truth of the foregoing 
rule, and he had not neglected its application in 
the discipline of his crew. When he reached the 
deck, therefore, after relinquishing the cabin to 
his visitors, he found those preparations which 
he had ordered to be commenced when he first 
returned to the ship, already far advanced tow- 11 
ard their execution. As these movements are] 
closely connected with the future events it is our 


THE COQUETTE’S PREPARATIONS FOR SEA. 


duty to explain, we shall relate them with some 
particularity. 

Ludlow had no sooner given his orders to the 
officer in charge of the deck, than the call of the 
boatswain was heard summoning all hands to 
their duty. When the crew was collected, tackles 
were hooked to the large boats stowed in the 
centre of the ship, and the whole of them were 
lowered into the water. The descent of those 
suspended on the quarters was of course less 
difficult, and much sooner effected. So soon as 
all the boats, with the exception of one at the 
stern, were out, the order was given to “ cross 
top-gallant-yards.” This duty had been com- 
menced while other things were in the course of 
performance, and a minute had scarcely passed 
before the upper masts were again in possession 
of their light sails. Then was heard the usual 
summons of “ all hands up anchor, ahoy l ” and 
the rapid orders of the young officers to “ man 
capstan-bars,” to “nipper,” and finally to “heave 
away.” The business of getting the anchor on 
board a cruiser, and on board a ship engaged in 
commerce, is of very different degrees of labor, as 
well as of expedition. In the latter, a dozen 
men apply their powers to a slow-moving and re- 
luctant windlass, while the untractable cable, as 
it enters, is broken into coils by the painful ef- 
forts of a grumbling cook, thwarted, perhaps, as 
much as he is aided by the waywardness of 
some wilful urchin who does the services of the 
cabin. On the other hand, the upright and con- 
stantly-moving capstan knows no delay. The re- 
volving “ messenger ” is ever ready to be applied 
and skilful petty officers are always in the tiers 
to dispose of the massive rope, that it may not 
encumber the decks. 

Ludlow appeared among his people while they 
were thus employed. Ere he had made one has- 
ty turn on the quarter-deck, he was met by the 
busy first-lieutenant. 

“We are short, sir,” said that agent of all 
work. 

“ Set your topsails.” 

The canvas was instantly permitted to fall, 
and it was no sooner stretched to the yards, than 
force was applied to the halyards, and the sails 
were hoisted. 

“ Which way, sir, do you wish the ship cast ? ” 
demanded the attentive Luff. 

“ To seaward.” 

The head-yards were accordingly braced aback 
in the proper direction, and it was then reported 
to the captain that all was ready to get the ship 
under way. 

“ Trip the anchor at once, sir ; when it is 


131 

stowed, and the decks are cleared, report to 
me.” 

This sententious and characteristic communi- 
cation was sufficient for all the purposes of that 
moment. The one was accustomed to issue his 
orders without explanation, and the other never 
hesitated to obey, and rarely presumed to inquire 
into their motive. 

“We are aweigh and stowed, sir; every thing 
clear,” said Mr. Luff, after a few minutes had 
been allowed to execute the preceding com- 
mands. 

Ludlow then seemed to arouse himself from a 
deep reverie. He had hitherto spoken mechanical- 
ly, rather than as one conscious of what he uttered, 
or whose feelings had any connection with his 
words. B ut it was now necessary to mingle with his 
officers and to issue mandates that, as they were 
less in routine, required both thought and dis- 
cretion. The crews of the different boats were 
“ called away,” and arms were placed in their 
hands. When nearly or quite one-half of the ship’s 
company were in the boats, and the latter were 
all reported to be ready, officers were assigned to 
each, and the particular service expected at their 
hands was distinctly explained. 

A master’s mate in the captain’s barge, with 
the crew strengthened by half a dozen marines, 
was ordered to pull directly for the cove, into 
which he . was to enter with muffled oars, and 
where he was to await a signal from the first-lieu- 
tenant, unless he met the brigantine endeavoring 
to escape, in which case his orders were impera- 
tive to board and carry her at every hazard. The 
high-spirited youth no sooner received this charge, 
than he quitted the ship and steered to the south- 
ward, keeping inside the tongue of land so often 
named. 

Luff was then told to take command of the 
launch. With this heavy and strongly-manned 
boat, he was ordered to proceed to the inlet, 
where he was to give the signal to the barge, and 
whence he was to go to the assistance of the lat- 
ter, so soon as he was assured the Water- Witch 
could not again escape by the secret passage. 

The two cutters were intrusted to the command 
of the second-lieutenant, with orders to pull into 
the broad passage between the end of the cape, 
or the “ Hook,” and that long, narrow island 
which stretches from the harbor of New York 
for more than forty leagues to the eastward, shel- 
tering the whole coast of Connecticut from the 
tempests of the ocean. Ludlow knew, though 
ships of a heavy draught were obliged to pass 
close to the cape, in order to gain the open sea, 
that a light brigantine, like the Water-Witch, 


132 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


could find a sufficient depth of water for her pur- 
poses farther north. The cutters were, therefore, 
sent in that direction, with orders to cover as 
much of the channel as possible, and to carry 
the smuggler should an occasion offer. Finally, 
the yawl was to occupy the space between the 
two channels, with orders to repeat signals, and 
to be vigilant in reconnoitring. 

While the different officers intrusted with 
these duties were receiving their instructions, the 
ship, under the charge of Trysail, began to move 
toward the cape. When off the point of the 
Hook, the two cutters and the yawl “ cast off,” 
and took to their oars, and, when fairly without 
the buoys, the launch did the same, each boat 
taking its prescribed direction. 

If the reader retains a distinct recollection of 
the scene described in one of the earlier pages of 
this work, he will understand the grounds on which 
Ludlow based his hopes of success. By sending 
the launch into the inlet, he believed he should 
enclose the brigantine on every side ; since her 
escape through either of the ordinary channels 
would become impossible, while he kept the 
Coquette in the offing. The service he expected 
from the three boats sent to the northward, was 
to trace the movement of the smuggler, and, 
should a suitable opportunity offer, to attempt to 
carry him by surprise. 

When the launch parted from the ship, the 
Coquette came slowly up to the wind, and, with 
her fore-topsail thrown to the mast, she lay, wait- 
ing to allow her boats the time necessary to reach 
their several stations. The different expeditions 
had reduced the force of the crew quite one-half, 
and as both the lieutenants were otherwise em- 
ployed, there now remained on board no officer 
of a rank between those of the captain and Try- 
sail. Some time after the vessel had been sta- 
tionary, and the men had been ordered to keep 
close, or, in other words, to dispose of their per- 
sons as they pleased, with a view to permit them 
to catch “ cat’s naps,” as some compensation for 
the loss of their regular sleep, the latter ap- 
proached his superior, who stood gazing over the 
hammock-cloths in the direction of the cove, and 
spoke. 

“ A dark night, smooth water, and fresh hands, 
make boating agreeable duty ! ” he said. “ The 
gentlemen are in fine heart, and full of young 
men’s hopes; but he who lays that brigantine 
aboard will, in my poor judgment, have more 
work to do than merely getting up her side. I 
was in the foremost boat that boarded a Spaniard 
in the Mona, last war; and though we went into 
her with light heels, some of us were brought out 


with broken heads. I think the foretop-gallant- 
mast has a better set, Captain Ludlow, since we 
gave the last pull at the rigging ? ” 

“ It stands well,” returned his half-attentive 
commander. “ Give it the other drag, if you think 
best.” 

“ Just as you please, sir ; ’tis all one to me. 
I care not if the mast is hove all of one side, like 
the hat on the head of a country buck ; but 
when a thing is as it ought to be, reason would 
tell us to let it alone. Mr. Luff was of opinion 
that, by altering the slings of the main-yard, we 
should give a better set to the topsail-sheets ; but 
it was little that could be done with the stick 
aloft, and I am ready to pay her majesty the dif- 
ference between the wear of the sheets as they 
stand now, and as Mr. Luff would have them, out 
of my own pocket, though it is often as empty 
as a parish church in which a fox-hunting parson 
preaches. I was present, once, when a real tally- 
ho was reading the service, and one of your god- 
less squires got in the wake of a fox, with his 
hounds, within hail of the church-windows ! The 
cries had some such effect on my roarer as a 
puff" of wind would have on this ship ; that is to 
say he sprung his luff, and, though he kept od 
muttering something I never knew what, his eyes 
were in the fields the whole time the pack was in 
view. But this wasn’t the worst of it ; for, when 
he got fairly back to his work again, the wind had 
been blowing the leaves of his book about, and he 
plumped us into the middle of the marriage cere- 
mony. I am no great lawyer, but there were those 
who said it was a god-send that half the young 
men in the parish weren’t married to their own 
grandmothers ! ” 

“ I hope the match was agreeable to the fam- 
ily,” said Ludlow, relieving one elbow by resting 
the weight of his head on the other. 

“ Why, as to that, I will not take upon me to 
say, since the clerk corrected the parson’s reck- 
oning before the mischief was entirely done. 
There has been a little dispute between me and 
the first-lieutenant, Captain Ludlow, concerning 
the trim of the ship. He maintains that we have 
got too much in forward of what he calls the cen- 
tre of gravity ; and he is of opinion that had we 
been less by the head, the smuggler would never 
have had the heels of us in the chase ; whereas I in- 
vite any man to lay a craft on her water-line — ” 

“ Show our light ! ” interrupted Ludlow. 

“ Yonder goes the signal of the launch ! ” 

Trysail ceased speaking, and, stepping on a 
gun, he began to gaze in the direction of the 
cove. A lantern, or some other bright object, 
was leisurely raised three times, and as often hid 


ANOTHER FAILURE. 


133 


from view. The signal came from under the land, 
and in a quarter that left no doubt of its object. 

“ So far well,” cried the captain, quitting his 
stand, and turning, for the first time, with con- 
sciousness, to his officer. “ ’Tis a sign that they 
are at the inlet, and that the offing is clear. I 
think, Master Trysail, we are now sure of our 
prize. Sweep the horizon thoroughly with the 
night-glass, and then we will close upon this 
boasted brigantine.” 

Both took glasses, and devoted several min- 
utes to this duty. A careful examination of the 
margin of the sea, from the coast of New Jersey 
to that of Long Island, gave them reason to be- 
lieve that nothing of any size was lying without 
the cape. The sky was more free from clouds 
to the eastward than under the land, and it was 
not difficult to make certain of this important 
fact. It gave them the assurance that the Water- 
Witch had not escaped by the secret passage, 
during the time lost in their own preparations. 

“ This is still well,” continued Ludlow. “ Now 
he cannot avoid us — show the triangle.” 

Three lights disposed in the form just named 
were then hoisted at the gaff-end of the Coquette. 
It was an order for the boats in the cove to pro- 
ceed. The signal was quickly answered from the 
launch, and a small rocket was seen sailing over 
the trees and shrubbery of the shore. All on 
board the Coquette listened intently, to catch 
some sound that should denote the tumult of an 
assault. Once Ludlow and Trysail thought the 
cheers of seamen came on the thick air of the 
night; and once, again, either fancy or their 
senses told them they heard the menacing hail 
which commanded the outlaws to submit. Many 
minutes of intense anxiety succeeded. The whole 
of the hammock-cloths on the side of the ship 
nearest to the land were lined with curious faces, 
though respect left Ludlow to the sole occupation 
of the short and light deck which covered the ac- 
commodations, whither he had ascended, to com- 
mand a more perfect view of the horizon. 

“ ’Tis time to hear their musketry, or to see 
the signal of success ! ” said the young man to 
himself, so intently occupied by his interest in 
the undertaking as to be unconscious of having 
spoken. 

“ Have you forgotten to provide a signal for 
failure ? ” said one at his elbow. 

“ Ha ! Master Seadrift — I would have spared 
you this spectacle.” 

“ ’Tis one too often witnessed to be singular. 
A life passed on the ocean has not left me igno- 
rant of the effect of night, with a view seaward, 
a dark coast, and a background of mountain ! ” 


“You have confidence in him left in charge 
of your brigantine ! I shall have faith in your 
sea-green lady myself, if he escape my boats this 
time.” 

“ See ! — there is a token of her fortune,” re- 
turned the other, pointing toward three lanterns 
that were shown at the inlet’s mouth, and over 
which many lights were burnt in rapid succession. 

“ ’Tis of failure ! Let the ship fall-off, and 
square away the yards ! Round in, men, round 
in. We will run down to the entrance of the 
bay, Mr. Trysail. The knaves have been aided 
by their lucky star ! ” 

Ludlow spoke with deep vexation in his tones, 
but always with the authority of a superior and 
the promptitude of a seaman. The motionless 
being, near him, maintained a profound silence. 
No exclamation of triumph escaped him, nor did 
he open his lips either in pleasure or in surprise. 
It appeared as if confidence in his vessel rendered 
him as much superior to exultation as to appre- 
hension. 

“ You look upon this exploit of your brigan- 
tine, Master Seadrift, as a thing of course,” Lud- 
low observed, when his own ship was steering 
toward the extremity of the cape again. “For- 
tune has not deserted you yet ; but, with the land 
on three sides, and this ship and her boats on 
the fourth, I do not despair yet of prevailing 
over your bronzed goddess ! ” 

“Our mistress never sleeps,” returned the 
dealer in contraband, drawing a long breath, like 
one who had struggled long to repress his interest. 

“ Terms are still in your power. I shall not 
conceal that the commissioners of her majesty’s 
customs set so high a price on the possession of 
the Water-Witch as to embolden me to assume 
a responsibility from which I might, on any oth- 
er occasion, shrink. Deliver the vessel, and I 
pledge you the honor of an officer that the crew 
shall land without question. Leave her to us, 
with empty decks and a swept hold, if you will, 
— but, leave the swift boat in our hands.” 

“ The lady of the brigantine thinks otherwise. 
She wears her mantle of the deep waters, and, 
trust me, spite of all your nets, she will lead her 
followers beyond the offices of the lead, and far 
from soundings — ay, spite of all the navy of 
Queen Anne ! ” 

“ I hope that others may not repent this ob- 
stinacy ! But this is no time to bandy words ; 
the duty of the ship requires my presence.” 

Seadrift took the hint, and reluctantly retired 
to the cabin. As he left the poop, the moon rose 
above the line of water in the eastern board, and 
shed its light along the whole horizon. The crew 


134 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


of the Coquette were now enabled to see, with suf- 
ficient distinctness, from the sands of the Hook 
to the distance of many leagues to seaward. 
There no longer remained a doubt that the brig- 
antine was still within the bay. Encouraged by 
this certainty, Ludlow endeavored to forget all mo- 
tives of personal feeling, in the discharge of a 
duty that was getting to be more and more interest- 
ing, as the prospect of its successful accomplish- 
ment grew brighter. 

It was not long before the Coquette reached 
the channel which forms the available mouth of 
the estuary. Here the ship was again brought 
to the wind, and men were sent upon the yards 
and all her more lofty spars, in order to overlook, 
by the dim and deceitful light, as much of the in- 
ner water a3 the eye could reach ; while Ludlow, 
assisted by the master, was engaged in the same 
employment on the deck. Two or three midship- 
men were included among the common herd 
aloft. 

“ There is nothing visible within,” said the 
captain, after a long and anxious search with a 
glass. “ The shadow of the Jersey mountains 
prevents the sight in that direction, while the 
spars of a frigate might be confounded with the 
trees of Staten Island, here, in the northern 
board. — Cross-jack-yard there ! ” 

The shrill voice of a midshipman answered to 
the hail. 

“ What do you make within the Hook, sir ? ” 

“ Nothing visible. Our barge is pulling along 
the land, and the launch appears to be lying otf 
the inlet ; ay, here is the yawl resting on its oars 
without the Romer; but we can find nothing 
which looks like the cutter in the range of 
Coney.” 

“ Take another sweep of the glass more west- 
ward, and look well into the mouth of the Raritan ; 
mark you any thing in that quarter ? ” 

“ Ha ! here is a speck on our lee quarter.” 

“ What do you make of it ? ” 

“ Unless sight deceives me greatly, sir, there 
is a light boat pulling in for the ship, about three 
cables’ length distant.” 

Ludlow raised his own glass, and swept the 
water in the direction named. After one or two 
unsuccessful trials, his eye caught the object; 
and, as the moon had now some power, he was at 
no loss to distinguish its character. There was 
evidently a boat, and one that, by its movements, 
had a design of holding communication with the 
cruiser. 

The eye of a seaman is acute on his element, 
and his mind is quick in forming opinions on all 
things that properly appertain to his profession. 


Ludlow saw instantly, by the construction, that 
the boat was not one of those sent from the ship ; 
that it approached in a direction which enabled 
it to avoid the Coquette, by keeping in a part of 
the bay where the water was not sufficiently deep to 
admit of her passage ; and that its movements 
were so guarded as to denote great caution, while 
there was an evident wish to draw as near to 
the cruiser as prudence might render advisable. 
Taking a trumpet, he hailed in the well-known 
and customary manner. 

The answer came up faintly against the air, 
but it was uttered with much practice in the im- 
plement, and with an exceeding compass of voice. 

“Ay, ay!” and “a parley from the brigan- 
tine ! ” were the only words that were distinctly 
audible. 

For a minute or two, the young man paced 
the deck in silence. * Then he suddenly command- 
ed the only boat which the cruiser now possessed 
to be lowered and manned. 

“ Throw an ensign into the stem-sheets,” he 
said, when these orders were executed ; “ and let 
there be arms beneath it. We will keep faith 
while faith is observed, but there are reasons for 
caution in this interview.” 

Trysail was directed to keep the ship station- 
ary, and, after giving to his subordinate private 
instructions of importance in the event of treach- 
ery, Ludlow went into the boat in person. A 
very few minutes sufficed to bring the jolly-boat 
and the stranger so near each other that the 
means of communication were both easy and sure. 
The men of the former were then commanded to 
cease rowing, and, raising his glass, the com- 
mander of the cruiser took a more certain and 
minute survey of those who awaited his coming. 
The strange boat was dancing on the waves, like 
a light shell that floated so buoyantly as scarce 
to touch the element which sustained it, while four 
athletic seamen leaned on the oars which lay 
ready to urge it ahead. In the stern-sheets stood 
a form whose attitude and mien could not readi- 
ly be mistaken. In the admirable steadiness of 
the figure, the folded arms, the fine and manly 
proportions, and the attire, Ludlow recognized 
the mariner of the India shawl. A wave of the 
hand induced him to venture nearer. 

“What is asked of the royal cruiser?” de- 
manded the captain of the vessel named, when 
the two boats were as near each other as seemed 
expedient. 

“ Confidence,” was the calm reply. “ Come 
nearer, Captain Ludlow ; I am here with naked 
hands ! Our conference need not be maintained 
with trumpets.” 


ARREST OF SEADRIFT. 


135 


Ashamed that a boat belonging to a ship-of- 
war should betray doubts, the people of the yawl 
were ordered to go within reach of the oars. 

“ Well, sir, you have your wish. I have quit- 
ted my ship, and come to the parley, with the 
smallest of my boats.” 

“ It is unnecessary to say what has been done 
with the others ! ” returned Tiller, across the 
firm muscles of whose face there passed a smile 
that was scarcely perceptible. “You hunt us 
hard, sir, and give but little rest to the brigantine. 
But again are you foiled ! ” 

“We have a harbinger of better fortune in a 
lucky blow that has been struck to-night.” 

“You are understood, sir; Master Seadrift 
has fallen into the hands of the queen’s servants 
— but take good heed ! if injury, in word or deed, 
befall that youth, there live those who well know 
how to resent the wrong ! ” 

“ These are lofty expressions to come from a 
proscribed man ; but we will overlook them in 
the motive. Your brigantine, Master Tiller, lost 
its master-spirit in the ‘ Skimmer of the Seas,’ and 
it may be wise to listen to the suggestions of mod- 
eration. If you are disposed to treat, I am here 
with no disposition to extort.” 

“We meet in a suitable spirit, then; for I 
come prepared to offer terms of ransom that 
Queen Anne, if she love her revenue, need not 
despise; but, as in duty to her majesty, I will 
first listen to her royal pleasure.” 

“ First, then, as a seaman, and one who is not 
ignorant of what a vessel can perform, let me di- 
rect your attention to the situation of the parties. 
I am certain that the Water-Witch, though for 
the moment concealed by the shadows of the hills, 
or favored, perhaps, by distance and the feeble- 
ness of this light, is in the waters of the bay. A 
force, against which she has no power of resist- 
ance, watches the inlet ; you see the cruiser in 
readiness to meet her off the Hook. My boats 
are so stationed as to preclude the possibility of 
escape, without sufficient notice, by the northern 
channel ; and, in short, the outlets are all closed 
to your passage. With the morning light we 
shall know your position, and act accordingly.” 

“No chart can show the dangers of rocks 
and shoals more clearly! — and to avoid these 
dangers— ? ” 

“Yield the brigantine and depart. Though 
outlawed, we shall content ourselves with the pos- 
session of the remarkable vessel in which you do 
your mischief, and hope that, deprived of the 
means to err, you will return to better courses.” 

“With the prayers of the Church for our 
amendment! Now listen, Captain Ludlow, to 


what I offer. You have the person of one much 
loved by all who follow the lady of the sea-green 
mantle in your power ; and we have a brigantine 
that does much injury to Queen Anne’s supremacy 
in the waters of this hemisphere — yield you the 
captive, and we promise to quit this coast, never 
to return.” 

“ This were a worthy treaty, truly, for one 
whose habitation is not a mad-house ! Relin- 
quish my right over the principle doer of the 
evil, and receive the unsupported pledge of a 
subordinate’s word ! Your happy fortune, Mas- 
ter Tiller, has troubled your reason. What I 
offer, was offered because I would not drive an 
unfortunate and remarkable man like him we 
have, to extremities, and — there may be other 
motives, but do not mistake my lenity. Should 
force become necessary to put your vessel into our 
hands, the law may view your offences with a still 
harsher eye. Deeds which the lenity of our sys- 
tem now considers as venial, may easily turn to 
crime ! ” 

“ I ought not to take your distrust as other 
than excusable,” returned the smuggler, evident- 
ly suppressing a feeling of haughty and wounded 
pride. “ The word of a free-trader should have 
little weight in the ears of a queer’s officer. We 
have been trained in different schools, and the 
same objects are seen in different colors. Your 
proposal has been heard, and, with some thanks 
for its fair intentions, it is refused without a hope 
of acceptance. Our brigantine is, as you right- 
ly think, a remarkable vessel! Her equal, sir, 
for beauty or spfced, floats not the ocean. By 
Heaven ! I would sooner slight the smiles of the 
fairest woman that walks the earth, than enter- 
tain a thought which should betray the interest 
I feel in that jewel of naval skill ! You have 
seen her at many times, Captain Ludlow — in 
squalls and calms ; with her wings abroad, and 
her pinions shut ; by day and night ; near and 
far ; fair and foul — and I ask you, with a sea- 
man’s frankness, is she not a toy to fill a seaman’s 
heart ? ” 

“ I deny not the vessel’s merits, nor her beauty 
— ’tis a pity she bears no better reputation.” 

“ I knew you could not withhold this praise ! 
But I grow childish when there is question of 
that brigantine! Well, sir, each has been heard, 
and now comes the conclusion. I part with the 
apple of my eye, ere a stick of that lovely fabric is 
willingly deserted ! Shall we make other ransom 
for the youth ? — What think you of a pledge in 
gold, to be forfeited should we forget our word ? ” 

You ask impossibilities. In treating thus at 
all I quit the path of proud authority, because, as 


136 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


has been said, there is that about the ‘ Skimmer 
of the Seas ’ that raises him above the coarse herd 
who in common traffic against the law. The brig- 
antine or nothing ! ” 

“My life before that brigantine! Sir, you 
forget our fortunes are protected by one who 
laughs at the efforts of your fleet. You think 
that we are enclosed, and that, when light shall 
return, there will remain merely the easy task 
to place your iron-mounted cruiser on our beam, 
and drive us to seek mercy. Here are honest 
mariners who could tell you of the hopelessness 
of the expedients. The Water-Witch has run 
the gantlet of all your navies, and shot has 
never yet defaced her beauty. 4 ’ 

“ And yet her limbs have been known to fall 
before a messenger from my ship.” 

“The stick wanted the commission of our 
mistress,” interrupted the other, glancing his eye 
at the credulous and attentive crew of the boat. 
“ In a thoughtless moment, ’twas taken up at sea, 
and fashioned to our purpose without counsel 
from the book. Nothing that touches our decks, 
under fitting advice, comes to harm. You look 
incredulous, and it is in character to seem so. 
If you refuse to listen to the lady of the brigan- 
tine, at least lend an ear to your own laws. Of 
what offence can you charge Master Seadrift, that 
you hold him captive ? ” 

“ His redoubted name of ‘ Skimmer of the 
Seas ’ were warranty to force him from a sanc- 
tuary,” returned Ludlow, smiling. “Though 
proof should fail of any immediate crime, there is 
impunity for the arrest, since *he law refuses to 
protect him.” 

“This is your boasted justice! Rogues in 
authority combine to condemn an absent and a 
silent man. But if you think to do your violence 
with impunity,' know there are those who take 
deep interest in the welfare of that youth.” 

“ This is foolish bandying of menaces,” said 
the captain, warmly. “If you accept my offers, 
speak ; and, if you reject them, abide the conse- 
quences.” 

“ I abide the consequences. But, since we 
cannot come to terms, as victor and the sub- 
mitting party, we may part in amity. Touch my 
hand, Captain Ludlow, as one brave man should 
salute another, though the next minute they are 
to grapple at the throat.” 

Ludlow hesitated. The proposal was made 
with so frank and manly a mien, and the air of 
the free-trader, as he leaned beyond the gunwale 
of his boat, was so superior to his pursuit, that, 
unwilling to seem churlish, or to be outdone in 
courtesy, he reluctantly consented, and laid his 


palm within that the other offered. The smuggler 
profited by the junction to draw the boats nearer, 
and, to the amazement of all who witnessed the 
action, he stepped boldly into the yawl, and was 
seated face to face with its officer in a moment. 

“ These are matters that are not fit for every 
ear,” said the decided and confident mariner, in an 
undertone, when he had made this sudden change 
in the position of the parties. “ Beal with me 
frankly, Captain Ludlow : is your prisoner left to 
brood on his melancholy, or does he feel the con- 
solation of knowing that others take an interest 
in his welfare ? ” 

“ He does not want for sympathy, Master Til- 
ler, since he has the pity' of the finest woman in 
America.” 

“ Ha ! la belle Barb6rie owns her esteem ! — 
is the conjecture right ? ” 

“ Unhappily, you are too near the truth. The 
infatuated girl seems but to live in his presence. 
She has so far forgotten the opinions of others, 
as to follow him to my ship.” 

Tiller listened intently ; from that instant all 
concern disappeared from his countenance. 

“ He who is thus favored .may, for a moment, 
even forget the brigantine ! ” he exclaimed, with 
his natural recklessness of air. “ And the aider- 
man ? — ” 

“ Has more discretion than his niece, since he 
did not permit her to come alone.” 

“ Enough. Captain Ludlow, let what will fol- 
low, we part as friends. Fear not, sir, to touch 
the hand of a proscribed man again; it is honest 
after its own fashion, and many is the peer and 
prince who keeps not so clean a palm. Beal ten- 
derly with that gay and rash young sailor; he 
wants the discretion of an older head, but the 
heart is kindness itself. I would hazard life to 
shelter his, but at every hazard the brigantine 
must be saved. Adieu.” 

There was emotion in the voice of the mari- 
ner of the shawl, notwithstanding his high bear- 
ing. Squeezing the hand of Ludlow, he passed 
back into his own barge, with the ease and stead- 
iness of one who made the ocean his home. 

“ Adieu ! ” he repeated, signing to his men 
to pull in the direction of the shoals, where it 
was certain the ship could not follow. “ We may 
meet again ; until then, adieu.” 

“We are sure to meet with the return of 
light.” 

“Believe it not, brave gentleman. Our lady 
will thrust the spars under her girdle, and pass 
a fleet unseen. A sailor’s blessing on you ; fair 
winds and a plenty ; a safe landfall, and a cheer- 
ful home ! Beal kindly by the boy ; and, in all 


MR. CARNABY. 


137 


but evil wishes to my vessel, success light on your 
ensign ! ” 

The seamen of both boats dashed their oars 
into the water at the same instant, and the two 
parties were quickly without the hearing of the 
voice. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

“ Did I tell this, 

Who would believe me ? ” . 

Measure for Measure. 

The time of the interview, related in the 
dose of the preceding chapter, was in the early 
watches of the night. It now becomes our duty 
to transport the reader to another, that had place 
several hours later, and after day had dawned on 
the industrious burghers of Manhattan. 

There stood near one of the wooden wharves, 
which lined the arm of the sea on which the city is 
so happily placed, a dwelling, around which there 
was every sign that its owner was engaged in a 
retail commerce that was active and thriving for 
that age and country. Notwithstanding the ear- 
liness of the hour, the windows of this house 
were open ; and an individual, of a busy-looking 
face, thrust his head so often from one of the 
casements as to show that he already expected 
the appearance of a second party in the affair 
that had probably called him from his bed even 
sboner than common. A tremendous rap at the 
door relieved his visible uneasiness ; and, hasten- 
ing to open it, he received his visitor with much 
parade of ceremony, and many protestations of 
respect, in person. 

“ This is an honor, my lord, that does not of- 
ten befall men of my humble condition,” said the 
master of the house, in the flippant utterance of a 
vulgar cockney; “ but I thought it would be more 
agreeable to your lordship to receive the a — a — 
here, than in the place where your lordship just 
at this moment resides. Will your lordship please 
to rest yourself, after your lordship’s walk ? ” 

“ I thank you, Carnaby,” returned the other, 
taking the offered seat with an air of easy supe- 
riority. “ You judge with your usual discretion, 
as respects the place, though I doubt the pru- 
dence of seeing him at all. Has the man come ? ” 

“ Doubtless, my lord ; he would hardly pre- 
sume to keep your lordship waiting, and much 
less would I countenance him in so gross a disre- 
spect. He will be most happy to wait on you, 
my lord, whenever your lordship shall please.” 

“ Let him wait : there is no necessity for 
haste. He has probably communicated some of 


the objects of this extraordinary call on my time, 
Carnaby ; and you can break them in the interven- 
ing moments.” 

“ I am sorry to say, my lord, that the fellow is 
as obstinate as a mule. I felt the impropriety of 
introducing him personally to your lordship ; but 
as he insisted he had affairs that would deeply in- 
terest you, my lord, I could not take upon me to 
say what would be agreeable to your lordship, or 
what not ; and so I was bold enough to write the 
note.” 

“And a very properly-expressed note it was, 
Master Carnaby. I have not received a better- 
worded communication since my arrival in this 
colony.” 

“ I am sure the approbation of your lordship 
might justly make any man proud ! It is the am- 
bition of my life, my lord, to do the duties of my 
station in a proper manner, and to treat all above 
me with a suitable respect, my lord, and all below 
me as in reason bound. If I might presume to 
think in such a matter, my lord, I should say that 
these colonists are no great judges of propriety 
in their correspondence, or indeed in any thing 
else.” 

The noble visitor shrugged his shoulder, and 
threw an expression into his look that encouraged 
the retailer to proceed. 

“ It is just what I think myself, my lord,” he 
continued, simpering; “but then,” he added, 
with a condoling and patronizing air, “ how should 
they know any better ? England is but an island, 
after all ; and the whole world cannot be born 
and educated on the same bit of earth.” 

“’Twould be inconvenient, Carnaby, if it led 
to no other unpleasant consequence.” 

“ Almost word for word what I said to Mrs. 
Carnaby myself, no later than yesterday, ray lord, 
only vastly better expressed. ‘ ’Twould be incon- 
venient,’ said I, ‘ Mrs. Carnaby, to take in the other 
lodger, for everybody cannot live in the same 
house ; ’ which covers as it were, the ground taken 
in your lordship’s sentiment. I ought to add, in 
behalf of the poor woman, that she expressed on 
the same occasion strong regrets that it is report- 
ed your lordship will be likely to quit us soon, on 
your return to old England.” 

“That is really a subject on which there is 
more cause to rejoice than to weep. This impris- 
oning, or placing within limits, so near a relative 
of the crown, is an affair that must have unpleas- 
ant consequences, and which offends sadly against 
propriety.” 

“ It is awful, my lord ! If it be not sacrilege 
by the law, the greater the shame of the opposi- 
tion in Parliament, who defeat so many other 


138 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


wholesome regulations intended for the good of 
the subject.” 

“ Faith, I am not sure I may not be driven to 
join them myself, bad as they are, Carnaby ; for 
this neglect of ministers, not to call it by a worse 
name, might goad a man to a more heinous meas- 
ure.” 

“ I am sure nobody could blame your lordship, 
were your lordship to join anybody, or any thing, 
but the French ! I have often told Mrs. Carnaby 
as much as that in our frequent conversations 
concerning the unpleasant situation in which your 
lordship is just now placed.” 

“ I had not thought the awkward transaction 
attracted so much notice,” observed the other, 
evidently wincing under the allusion. 

“ It attracts it only in a proper and respect- 
ful way, my lord. Neither Mrs. Carnaby nor my- 
self ever indulges in any of these remarks, but in 
the most proper and truly English manner.” 

“ The reservation might palliate a greater er- 
ror. That word proper is a prudent term, and 
expresses all one could wish. I had not thought 
you so intelligent and shrewd a man, Master Car- 
naby : clever in the way of business, I always 
knew you to be ; but so apt in reason, and so ma- 
tured in principle, is what I will confess I had 
not expected. Can you form no conjecture of the 
business of this man ? ” 

“ Not in the least, my lord. I pressed the im- 
propriety of a personal interview ; for, though he 
alluded to some business or other, I scarcely know 
what, with which he appeared to think your lord- 
ship had some connection, I did not understand 
him, and we had like to have parted without an 
explanation.” 

“ I will not see the fellow.” 

“Just as your lordship pleases — I am sure 
that, after so many little affairs have passed 
through my hands, I might be safely trusted with 
this ; and I said as much — but as he positively 
refused to make me an agent, and he insisted 
that it was so much to your lordship’s interest — 
why I thought, my lord, that perhaps — just 
now — ” 

“ Show him in.” 

Carnaby bowed low and submissively, and, af- 
ter busying himself in placing the chairs aside, 
and adjusting the table more conveniently for the 
elbow of his guest, he left the room. 

“Where is the man I bid you keep in the 
shop ? ” demanded the retailer, in a coarse, au- 
thoritative voice, when without, addressing a 
meek and humble-looking lad who did the duty 
of clerk. “ I warrant me he is left in the kitchen, 
and you have been idling about on the walk ! A 


more heedless and unattentive lad than yourself 
is not to be found in America, and the sun never 
rises but I repent having signed your indentures. 
You shall pay for this, you — ” 

The appearance of the person he sought cut 
short the denunciations of the obsequious grocer 
and the domestic tyrant. He opened the door, 
and, having again closed it, left his two visitors 
together. 

Though the degenerate descendant of the 
great Clarendon had not hesitated to lend his 
office to cloak the irregular and unlawful trade 
that was then so prevalent in the American seas, 
he had paid the sickly but customary deference 
to virtue, of refusing on all occasions to treat per- 
sonally with its agents. Sheltered behind his 
official and personal rank, he had soothed his 
feelings by tacitly believing that cupidity is less 
venial when its avenues are hidden ; and that, in 
protecting his station from an immediate contact 
with its ministers, he had discharged an important, 
and, for one in his situation, an imperative duty. 
Unequal to the exercise of virtue itself, he thought 
he had done enough in preserving some of its 
seemliness. Though far from, paying even this 
slight homage to decency, in his more ordinary 
habits, his pride of rank had, on the subject of 
so coarse a failing, induced him to maintain an 
appearance which his pride of character would 
not have suggested. Carnaby was much the 
most degraded, and the lowest of those with 
whom he ever condescended to communicate di- 
rectly ; and, even with him, there might have 
been some scruple, had not his necessities caused 
him to stoop so far as to accept pecuniary assist- 
ance from one he both despised and detested. 

When the door opened, therefore, the Lord 
Combury rose, and, determined to bring the in- 
terview to a speedy issue, he turned to face the 
individual who entered with a mien into which he 
threw all the distance and hauteur that he thought 
necessary for such an object. But he encoun- 
tered in the mariner of the India shawl a very 
different man from the flattering and obsequious 
grocer who had just quitted him. Eye met eye, I 
his gaze of authority receiving a look as steady ; 
if not as curious as his own. It was evident by 
the composure of the fine, manly frame he saw, 
that its owner rested his claims on the aristocra- 
cy of Nature. The noble forgot his acting under 
the influence of surprise, and his voice expressed 
as much of admiration as command, when he said : 

“ This, then, is the ‘ Skimmer of the Seas ! ’ ” 

“ Men call me thus : if a life passed on oceans 
gives a claim to the title, it has been fairly 
earned/ 


MASTER SKIMMER AND LORD CORNBURY. 


“Your character — I may say that some por- 
tions of your history — are not unknown to me. 
Poor Carnaby, who is a worthy and an industrious 
man, with a growing family dependent on bis ex- 
ertions, has entreated me to receive you, or there 
might be less apology for this step than I could 
wish. Men of a certain rank, Master Skimmer, 
owe so much to their station that I rely on your dis- 
cretion.” 

“ I have stood in nobler presences, my lord, and 
found so little change by the honor that I am not 
apt to boast of what I see. Some of princely rank 
have found their profit in my acquaintance.” 

“ I do not deny your usefulness, sir ; it is on- 
ly the necessity of prudence, I would urge. There 
has been, I believe, some sort of implied contract 
between us — at least so Carnaby explains the 
transaction, for I rarely enter into these details 
myself— by which you may perhaps feel some 
right to include me in the list of your custom- 
era. Men in high places must respect the laws, 
yet it is not always convenient, or even use- 
ful, that they should deny themselves every in- 
dulgence which policy would prohibit to the mass. 
One who has seen as much of life as yourself 
needs no explanations on this head ; and I can- 
not doubt but our present interview will have a 
satisfactory termination.” 

The Skimmer scarce deemed it necessary to 
conceal the contempt that caused his lip to curl, 
while the other was endeavoring to mystify his 
Gupidity ; when the speaker was done, he merely 
expressed an assent by a slight inclination of the 
head. The ex-governor saw that his attempt was 
fruitless, and, by relinquishing his masquerade, 
and yielding more to his natural propensities and 
tastes, he succeeded better. 

“ Carnaby has been a faithful agent,” he con- 
tinued, “ and, by his reports, it would seem that 
our confidence has not been misplaced. If fame 
speaks true, there is not a more dexterous navi- 
gator of the narrow seas than thyself, Master 
Skimmer. It is to be supposed that your corre- 
spondents on this coast, too, are as lucrative as I 
doubt not they are numerous.” 

“ He who sells cheap can never want a pur- 
chaser. I think your lordship has no reason to 
complain of prices.” 

“ As pointed as his compass ! — Well, sir, as I 
am no longer master here, may I ask the object 
of this interview ? ” 

“ I have come to seek your interest in behalf 
of one who has fallen into the grasp of the queen’s 
officers.” 

“ Hum — the amount of which is, that the 
cruiser in the bay has entrapped some careless 


139 

smuggler. We are none of us immortal, and an ar- 
rest is but a legal death to men of your persuasion 
in commerce. Interest is a word of many mean- 
ings. It is the interest of one man to lend, and 
of another to borrow ; of the creditor to receive, 
and of the debtor to avoid payment. Then there 
is interest at court, and interest in court — in 
short, you must deal more frankly, ere I can de- 
cide on the purport of your visit.” 

“I ar n not ignorant that the queen has been 
pleased to name another governor over this colony, 
or that your creditors, my lord, have thought it 
prudent to take a pledge for their dues, in your 
person. Still I must think that one who stands 
so near the queen in blood, and who sooner or later 
must enjoy both rank and fortune in the mother- 
country, will not solicit so slight a boon as that I 
ask without success. This is the reason I prefer to 
treat with you.” 

“As clear an explanation as the shrewdest 
casuist could desire! I admire your succinct- 
ness, Master Skimmer, and confess you for the 
pink of etiquette. When your fortune shall 
be made, I recommend the court circle as your 
place of retirement. Governors, creditors, queen, 
and imprisonment, all as compactly placed in the 
same sentence, as if it were the creed written on 
a thumb-nail! Well, sir, we will suppose my in- 
terest what you wish it.— Who and what is the 
delinquent ? ” 

“ One named Seadrift — a useful and a pleas- 
ant youth, who passes much between me and my 
customers; heedless and merry in his humors, 
but dear to all in my brigantine, because of tried 
fidelity and shrewd wit. We could sacrifice the 
profits of the voyage that he were free. To me 
he is a necessary agent, for his skill in the judg- 
ment of rich tissues, and other luxuries that com- 
pose my traffic, is exceeding ; and I am better 
fitted to guide the vessel to her haven, and to 
look to her safety amid shoals and in tempests, 
than to deal in these trifles of female vanity.” 

“ So dexterous a go-between should not have 
mistaken a tide-waiter for a customer — how be- 
fell the accident ? ” 

“He met the barge of the Coquette at an 
unlucky moment, and as we had so lately been 
chased off the coast by the cruiser, there was no 
choice but to arrest him.” 

“ The dilemma is not without embarrassment. 
When once his mind is settled, it is no trifle that 
will amuse this Mr. Ludlow. I do not know a more 
literal constructer of his orders — a man, sir, who 
thinks words have but a single set of meanings, 
and who knows as little as can be imagined of the 
difference between a sentiment and a practice.” 


140 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


“ He is a seaman, my lord, and he reads his 
instructions with a seaman’s simplicity. I think 
none the worse of him, that he cannot be tempted 
from his duty ; for, let us understand the right 
as we will, our service once taken, it becomes us 
all to do it faithfully.” 

A small red spot came and went on the cheek 
of the profligate Cornbury. Ashamed of his 
weakness, he affected to laugh at what he had 
heard, and continued the discourse. 

“ Your forbearance and charity might adorn 
a churchman, Master Skimmer!” he answered. 
“Nothing can be more true, for this is an age 
of moral truths, as witness the Protestant suc- 
cession. Men are now expected to perform, and 
not to profess. Is the fellow of such useful- 
ness that he may not be abandoned to his 
fate?” 

“ Much as I dote on my brigantine, and few 
men set their affections on woman with a stronger 
love, I would see the beauteous craft degenerate 
to a cutter for the queen’s revenue, before I 
would entertain the thought ! But I will not an- 
ticipate a long and painful imprisonment for the 
youth, since those who are not altogether power- 
less already take a deep and friendly concern in 
his safety.” 

“You have overcome the brigadier!” cried 
the other, in a burst of exultation, that conquered 
the little reserve of manner he had thought it 
necessary to maintain ; “ that immaculate and 
reforming representative of my royal cousin has 
bitten of the golden bait, and proves a true colony 
governor after all ! ” 

“ Lord viscount, no. What we have to hope 
or what we have to fear from your successor, is 
to me a secret.” 

“ Ply him with promises, Master Skimmer — 
set golden hopes before his imagination ; set gold 
itself before his eyes, and you will prosper. I 
will pledge my expected earldom that he yields ! 
Sir, these distant situations are like so many half- 
authorized mints, in which money is to be coined ; 
and the only counterfeit is your mimic represent- 
ative of majesty. Ply him with golden hopes ; 
if mortal, he will yield ! ” 

“Yet, my lord, I have met men who preferred 
poverty and their opinions, to gold and the wishes 
of others.” 

“ The dolts were lusus natura ! ” exclaimed 
the dissolute Cornbury, losing all reserve in a 
manner that better suited his known and con- 
firmed character. “You should have caged them, 
Skimmer, and profited by their dulness to lay the 
curious under contribution. Don’t mistake me, 
sir, if I speak a little in confidence. I hope I 


know the difference between a gentleman and a 
leveller, as well as another ; but, trust me, this Mr. 
Hunter is human, and he will yield if proper ap- 
pliances are used — and you expect from me — ? ” 

“ The exercise of that influence which cannot 
fail of success ; since there is a courtesy between 
men of a certain station, which causes them to 
overlook rivalry, in the spirit of their caste. The 
cousin of Queen Anne can yet obtain the liberty 
of one whose heaviest crime is a free trade, though 
he may not be able to keep his own seat in the 
chair of the government.” 

“ Thus far, indeed, my poor influence may yet 
extend, provided the fellow be not named in any 
act of outlawry. I would gladly enough, Mr. 
Skimmer, end my deeds in this hemisphere, with 
some act of graceful mercy, if — indeed — I saw — 
the means — ” 

“ They shall not be wanting. I know the law 
is like any other article of great price ; some 
think that Justice holds the balance, in order to 
weigh her fees. Though the profits of this haz- 
ardous and sleepless trade of mine be much over- 
rated, I would gladly line her scales with two 
hundred broad pieces, to have that youth again 
safe in the cabin of the brigantine.” 

As the “ Skimmer of the Seas ” thus spoke, he 
drew, with the calmness of a man who saw no use 
in circumlocution, a heavy bag of gold from be- 
neath his frock, and deposited it, without a second 
look at the treasure, on the table. When this 
offering was made, he turned aside, less by de- 
sign than by a careless movement of the body, 
and, when he faced his companion again, the bag 
had vanished. 

“Your affection for the lad is touching, Mas- 
ter Skimmer,” returned the corrupt Cornbury ; 
“ it were a pity such friendship should be wasted. 
Will there be proof to insure his condemnation ? ” 

“ It may be doubted. His dealings have only 
been with the higher class of my customers, and 
with but few of them. The care I now take is 
more in tenderness to the youth, than with any 
great doubts of the result. I shall count you, 
my lord, among his protectors, in the event that 
the affair is noised ! ” 

“ I owe it to your frankness — but will Mr. 
Ludlow content himself with the possession of 
an inferior, when the principal is so near ? and 
shall we not have a confiscation of the brigantine 
on our hands ? ” 

“ I charge myself with the care of all else. 
There was indeed a lucky escape only the last 
night, as we lay at a light kedge, waiting for the 
return of him who has been arrested. Profiting 
by the possession of our skiff, the commander of 


APPROACHING DANGER. 


141 


the Coquette himself got within the sweep of my 
hawse nay, he was in the act of cutting the very 
fastenings, when the dangerous design was dis- 
covered. ’Twould have been a fate unworthy of 
the Water-Witch, to be cast on shore like a drift- 
ing log, and to check her noble career by some 
such a seizure as that of a stranded waif ! ” 

“ You avoided the mischance ? ” 

“ My eyes are seldom shut, lord viscount, 
when there is danger. The skiff was seen in 
time, and watched ; for I knew that one in whom 
I trusted was abroad. When the movement grew 
suspicious, we had our means of frightening this 
Mr. Ludlow from hi3 enterprise, without recourse 
to violence.” 

“ I had not thought him one to be scared 
from following up a business like this.” 

“ You judged him rightly — I may say we 
judged him rightly. But when his boats sought 
us at our anchorage, the bird had flown.” 

“ You got the brigantine to sea in season ? ” 
observed Cornbury, not sorry to believe that the 
vessel was already off the coast. 

“ I had other business. My agent could not 
be thus deserted, and there were affairs to finish 
in the city. Our course lay up the bay.” 

“ Ha ! Master Skimmer, ’twas a bold step, and 
one that says little for your discretion ! ” 

“ Lord viscount, there is safety in courage,” 
calmly and perhaps ironically returned the other. 
“While the queen’s captain closed all the outlets, 
my little craft was floating quietly under the hills 
of Staten. Before the morning watch was set, 
she passed these wharves ; and she now awaits 
her captain in the broad basin that lies beyond 
the bend of yonder headland.” 

“ This is foolhardiness. A failure of wind, a 
change of tide, or any of the mishaps common 
to the sea, may throw you on the mercy of the 
law, and will greatly embarrass all who feel an in- 
terest in your safety.” 

“ So far as this apprehension is connected 
with my welfare, I thank you much, my lord ; 
but, trust me, many hazards have left me but lit- 
tle to learn in this particular. We shall run the 
Hell-Gate, and gain the open sea by the Con- 
necticut Sound.” 

.“Truly, Master Skimmer, one has need of 
nerves to be your confidant ! Faith in a compact 
constitutes the beauty of social order ; without 
it there is no security for interests, nor any re- 
pose for character. But faith may be implied 
as well as expressed ; and when men in certain 
situations place their dependence on others who 
should have motives for being wary, the first are 
bound to respect, even to the details of a most | 


scrupulous construction, the conditions of the 
covenant. Sir, I wash my hands of this transac- 
tion, if it be understood that testimony is to be 
accumulated against us, by thus putting your 
Water-Witch in danger of trial before the Ad- 
miralty.” 

“ I am sorry that this is your decision,” re- 
turned the Skimmer. “ What is done cannot be 
recalled, though I still hope it may be remedied. 
My brigantine now lies within a league of this, 
and ’twould be treachery to deny it. Since it is 
your opinion, my lord, that our contract is not 
valid, there is little use in its seal— the broad 
pieces may still be serviceable in shielding that 
youth from harm.” 

“ You are as literal in constructions, Master 
Skimmer, as a school-boy’s version of his Yirgil. 
There is an idiom in diplomacy, as well as in lan- 
guage, and one who treats so sensibly should not be 
ignorant of its phrases. Bless me, sir; an hy- 
pothesis is not a conclusion, any more than a 
promise is a performance. That which is ad- 
vanced by way of supposition, is but the orna- 
ment of reasoning, while your gold has the 
more solid character of demonstration. Our 
bargain is made.” 

The unsophisticated mariner regarded the 
noble casuist a moment, in doubt whether to ac- 
quiesce in this conclusion or not ; but, ere he had 
decided on his course, the windows of the room 
were shaken violently, and the heavy roar of a 
piece of ordnance succeeded. 

“ The morning gun ! ” exclaimed Cornbury, 
who started at the explosion, with the sensitive- 
ness of one unworthily employed. “ No ! ’tis an 
hour past the rising of the sun ! ” 

The Skimmer showed no yielding of the 
nerves, though it was evident, by his attitude of 
thought and the momentary fixedness of his eye, 
that he foresaw danger was near. Moving to the 
window, he looked out on the water, and instant- 
ly drew back, like one who wanted no further 
evidence. 

“ Our bargain then is made,” he said, hastily 
approaching the viscount, whose hand he seized 
and wrung in spite of the other’s obvious reluc- 
tance to allow the familiarity ; “ our bargain then 
is made. Deal fairly by the youth, and the deed 
will be remembered — deal treacherously, and it 
shall be revenged ! ” 

For one instant longer the Skimmer held the 
member of the effeminate Cornbury imprisoned ; 
then, raising his cap with a courtesy that appeared 
more in deference to himself than his companion, 
he turned on his heel, and with a firm but quick 
step he left the house. 


142 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


Carnaby, who entered on the instant, found 
his guest in a state between resentment, surprise, 
and alarm. But habitual levity soon conquered 
other feelings, and, finding himself freed from 
the presence of a man who had treated him with 
so little ceremony, the ex-governor shook his 
head, like one accustomed to submit to evils he 
could not obviate, and assumed the ease and in- 
solent superiority he was accustomed to maintain 
in the presence of the obsequious grocer. 

“ This may be a coral or a pearl, or any other 
precious gem of the ocean, Master Carnaby,” he 
said, unconscious himself that he was in a man- 
ner endeavoring to cleanse his violated hand from 
the touch it had endured, by the use of his hand- 
kerchief, “ but it is one on which the salt water 
hath left its crust. Truly it is to be hoped that I 
am never again to be blockaded by such a monster, 
or I may better say, harpooned ; for the familiarity 
of the boatswain is more painful than any inven- 
tions of his brethren of the deep can prove to 
their relative the leviathan. Has the clock told 
the hour ! ” 

“’Tis not yet six, my lord, and there is 
abundant leisure for your lordship to return in 
season toyour lordship’s lodgings. Mrs. Carnaby 
has dared to flatter herself that your lordship 
will condescend to honor us so far as to taste a 
dish of bohea under our humble roof.” 

“ What is the meaning of that gun, Master 
Carnaby ? It gave the alarm to the smuggler, as 
if it had been a summons from Execution Dock, 
or a groan from the ghost of Kidd.” 

“I never presumed to think, my lord. I sup- 
pose it to be some pleasure of her majesty’s offi- 
cers in the fort ; and, when that is the case, one 
is quite certain that all is proper, and very Eng- 
lish, my lord.” 

“ Tore George, sir, English or Dutch, it had 
the quality to frighten this sea-fowl — this curlew 
— this albatross, from his perch ! ” 

“ Upon my duty to your lordship, your lord- 
ship has the severest wit of any gentleman in her 
majesty’s kingdom ; but all the nobility and gen- 
try are so witty that it is quite an honor and an 
edification to hear them ! If it is your lordship’s 
pleasure, I will look out of the window, my lord, 
and see if there be anything visible.” 

“ Do so, Master Carnaby — I confess a little 
curiosity to know what has given the alarm to 
my sea-lion — ha ! do I not see the masts of a ship 
moving above the roofs of yonder line of stores ? ” 

“ Well, your lordship has the quickest eye, and 
the happiest way of seeing things, of any noble- 
man in England ! Now, I should have stared a 
quarter of an hour, before I thought of looking 


over the roofs of those stores at all ; and yet your 
lordship looks there at the very first glance.” 

“ Is it a ship or a brig, Master Carnaby — you 
have the advantage of position, for I would not 
willingly be seen — speak quickly, dolt ; ship or 
brig? ” 

“ My lord — ’tis a brig— or a ship — really I 
must ask your lordship, for I know so little of 
these things — ” 

“ Nay, complaisant Master Carnaby — have an 
opinion of your own for one moment, if you please 
— there is smoke curling upward, behind those 
masts — ” 

Another rattling of windows, and a second re- 
port, removed all doubts on the subject of the fir- 
ing. At the next instant, the bows of a vessel of 
war appeared at the opening of a ship-yard ; then 
came gun after gun in view, until the whole 
broadside of the Coquette was visible. 

The viscount sought no further solution of 
the reason why the Skimmer had left him so hur- 1 
riedly. Fumbling a moment in a pocket, he 
drew forth a hand filled with broad pieces of 
gold. These he appeared about to lay upon the 
table ; but, as it were by forgetfulness, he kept 
the member closed, and, bidding the grocer adieu, 
he left the house, with as firm a resolution as was 
ever made by any man, conscious of having done 
both a weak and a wicked action, of never again 
putting himself in familiar contact with so truc- 
kling a miscreant. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“What care these rparers for the name of king?” 

Tempest. 

The Manhattanese will readily comprehend the 
situation of the two vessels ; but those of our 
countrymen who live in distant parts of the Union, 
may be glad to have the localities explained. 

Though the vast estuary which receives the 
Hudson and so many minor streams is chiefly 
made by an indentation of the continent, that 
portion of it which forms the port of New York 
is separated from the ocean by the happy position 
of its islands. Of the latter there are two, which 
give the general character to the basin, and even 
to a long line of coast ; while several that are 
smaller, serve as useful and beautiful accessories 
to the haven and to the landscape. Between the 
bay of Raritan and that of New York there are 
two communications, one between the islands of 
Staten and Nassau, called the Narrows, which is 
the ordinary ship-channel of the port, and the 
other between Staten and the main, which is 


THE ROYAL CRUISER’S SIGNALS. 


143 



known by the name of the Kills. It is by means 
of the latter that vessels pass into the neighbor- 
ing waters of New Jersey, and have access to so 
many of the rivers of that State. But while the 
island of Staten does so much for the security 
and facilities of the port, that of Nassau produces 
an effect on a great extent of coast. After shel- 
tering one-half of the harbor from the ocean, the 
latter approaches so near the continent as to nar- 
row the passage between them to the length of 
two cables, and then, stretching away eastward 
for the distance of a hundred miles, it forms a 
wide and beautiful sound. After passing a clus- 
ter of islands, at a point which lies forty leagues 
from the city, by another passage, vessels can 
gain the open sea. 

The seaman will at once understand that the 
tide of flood must necessarily flow into these vast 
estuaries from different directions. The current 
which enters by Sandy Hook (the scene of so much 
of this tale) flows westward into the Jersey rivers, 
northward into the Hudson, and eastward along 
the arm of the sea that lies between Nassau and the 
main. The current that comes by the way of Mon- 
tauk, or the eastern extremity of Nassau, raises the 
vast basin of the sound, fills the streams of Connect- 
icut, and meets the western tide at a place called 
Throgmorton, and within twenty miles of the city. 

As the size of the estuaries is so great, it is 
scarcely necessary to explain that the pressure of 
such wide sheets of water causes the currents, at 
all the narrow passes, to be exceedingly rapid ; 
since that equal diffusion of the element, which 
depends on a natural law, must, wherever there 
is a deficiency of space, be obtained by its velo- 
city. There is, consequently, a quick tide through- 
out the whole distance between the harbor and 
Throgmorton ; while it is permitted to poetic li- 
cense to say that, at the narrowest part of the 
channel, the water darts by the land like an ar- 
row parting from its bow. Owing to a sudden 
bend in the course of the stream, which makes 
two right angles within a short distance, the dan- 
gerous position of many rocks that are visible 
and more that are not, and the confusion produced 
by currents, counter-currents, and eddies, this 
critical pass has received the name of “Hell 
Gate.” It is memorable for causing many a gentle 
bosom to palpitate with a terror that is a little 
exaggerated by the boding name, though it is 
constantly the cause of pecuniary losses, and has 
in many instances been the source of much per- 
sonal danger. It was here that a British frigate 
was lost, during the war of the Revolution, in 
consequence of having struck a rock called “ the 
Pot,” the blow causing the ship to fill and to 


founder so suddenly that even some of her peo- 
ple are said to have been drowned. A similar 
but a greatly lessened effect is produced in the 
passage among the islands, by which vessels gain 
the ocean at the eastern extremity of the sound ; 
though the magnitude of the latter sheet of water 
is so much greater than that of Raritan Bay and 
the harbor of New York, that the force of its 
pressure is diminished by a corresponding width 
in the outlets. With these explanations we shall 
return to the thread of the narrative. ■ 

When the person, who has so long been 
known in our pages by the nom de guerre of Tiller, 
gained the open street, he had a better opportu- 
nity of understanding the nature of the danger 
which so imminently pressed upon the brigan- 
tine. With a single glance at the symmetrical 
spars and broad yards of the ship that was sweep- 
ing past the town, he knew her to be the Coquette. 
The little flag at her foretop-gallant mast suffi- 
ciently explained the meaning of the gun ; for the 
two, in conjunction with the direction the ship 
was steering, told him, in language that any sea- 
man could comprehend, that she demanded a 
Hell-Gate pilot. By the time the Skimmer reached 
the end of a lone wharf, where a light and swift- 
rowing boat awaited his return, the second report 
bespoke the impatience of his pursuers to be fur- 
nished with the necessary guide. 

Though the navigation in this republic, coast- 
wise, now employs a tonnage equalling that used 
in all the commerce of any other nation of Chris- 
tendom, England alone excepted, it was of no 
great amount at the commencement of the eigh- 
teenth century. A single ship, lying at the 
wharves, and two or three brigs and schooners 
at anchor in the rivers, composed the whole show 
of sea-vessels then in port. To these were to be 
added some twenty smaller coasters and river- 
craft, most of whom were the shapeless and slow- 
moving masses which then plied, in voyages of a 
month’s duration, between the two principal towns 
of the colony. The appeal of the Coquette, there- 
fore, at that hour and in that age, was not likely 
to be very quickly answered. 

The ship had got fairly into the arm of the 
sea which separates the island of Manhattan from 
that of Nassau, and though it was not then, as 
now, narrowed by artificial means, its tide was so, 
strong as, aided by the breeze, to float her swiftly 
onward. A third gun shook the windows of the, 
city, causing many a worthy burgher to thrust 
his head through his casement ; yet no boat was 
seen pulling from the land, nor was there any 
other visible sign that the signal would be speedi- 
ly obeyed. Still, the royal cruiser stood steadily 


144 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


on, with sail packed above sail, and every sheet 
of canvas spread, that the direction of the wind, 
which blew a little forward of the beam, would 
allow. 

“ We must pull for our own safety, and that 
of the brigantine, my men,” said the Skimmer, 
springing into his boat and seizing the tiller. “ A 
quick stroke, and a strong ! — here is no time for 
holiday feathering, or your man-of-war jerk ! 
Give way, boys ; give way, with a will, and togeth- 
er!” 

These were sounds that had often saluted the 
ears of men engaged in the hazardous pursuit of 
his crew. The oars fell into the water at the 
same moment, and, quick as thought, the little 
bark was in the strength of the current. 

The short range of wharves was soon passed, 
and, ere many minutes, the boat was gliding up 
with the tide, between the bluffs of Long Island 
and the projection which forms the angle on that 
part of Manhattan. Here the Skimmer was in- 
duced to sheer more into the centre of the pas- 
sage, in order to avoid the eddies formed by the 
point, and to preserve the whole benefit of the 
current. As the boat approached Corlaer’s, his 
eye was anxiously examining the wider reach of 
the water, that began to open above, in quest of 
his brigantine. Another gun was heard. A mo- 
ment after the report, there followed the whistling 
of a shot ; then succeeded the rebound on the wa- 
ter and the glittering particles of the spray. The 
ball glanced a few hundred feet farther, and, skip- 
ping from place to place, it soon sank into the 
element. 

u This Mr. Ludlow is disposed to kill two birds 
with the same stone,” coolly observed the Skimmer, 
not even bending his head aside, to note the posi- 
tion of the ship. “ He wakes the burghers of the 
town with his noise, while he menaces our boat 
with his shot. We are seen, my friends, and have 
no dependence but our own manhood, with some 
assistance from the lady of the sea-green mantle. 
A quicker stroke, and a strong ! You have the 
queen’s cruiser before you, Master Coil ; does she 
show boats on her quarters, or are the davits 
empty ? ” 

The seaman addressed pulled the stroke-oar 
of the boat, and consequently he faced the Co- 
quette. Without in the least relaxing his exer- 
tions, he rolled his eyes over the ship, and an- 
swered with a steadiness that showed him to be 
a man accustomed to situations of hazard. 

<l His boat-falls are as loose as a mermaid’s 
locks, your honor, and he shows few men in his 
tops ; there are enough of the rogues left, how- 
ever, to give us another shot.” 


“Her majesty’s servants are early awake this 
morning. Another stroke or two, hearts of oak, 
and we throw them behind the land ! ” 

A second shot fell into the water just without 
the blades of the oars ; then the boat, obedient 
to its helm, whirled round the point, and the ship 
was no longer visible. As the cruiser was shut 
in by the formation of the land, the brigantine 
came into view on the opposite side of Corlaer’s. 
Notwithstanding the calmness that reigned in the 
features of the Skimmer, one who studied his 
countenance closely might have seen an expres- 
sion of concern shadowing his manly face, as the 
Water-Witch met his eye. Still he spoke not, 
concealing his uneasiness, if in truth he felt any, 
from those whose exertions were at that moment 
of the last importance. As the crew of the ex- 
pecting vessel saw their boat, they altered their 
course, and the two were soon together. 

“ Why is that signal still flying ? ” demanded 
the Skimmer, the instant his foot touched the 
deck of his brigantine, and pointing, as he spoke, 
at the little flag that fluttered at the head of the 
forward mast. 

“We keep it aloft to hasten off the pilot,” 
was the answer. 

“ Has not the treacherous knave kept faith ? ” 
exclaimed the Skimmer, half recoiling in surprise. 
“ He has my gold, and in return I hold fifty of 
his worthless promises — ha ! the laggard is in yon 
skiff; wear the brig round and meet him, for mo- 
ments are as precious now as water in a desert.” 

The helm was a-weather, and the lively brigan- 
tine had already turned more than half aside, when 
another gun drew every eye toward the point. 
The smoke was seen rising above the bend of the 
land, and presently the head-sails, followed by 
all the hull and spars of the Coquette, came into 
view. At that instant a voice from forward an- 
nounced that the pilot had turned, and was 
rowing with all his powers toward the shore. 
The imprecations that were heaped on the head 
of the delinquent were many and deep, but it was 
no time for indecision. The two vessels were 
not half a mile apart, and now was the moment to 
show the qualities of the Water-Witch. Her helm 
was shifted ; and, as if conscious herself of the 
danger that threatened her liberty, the beautiful 
fabric came sweeping up to her course, and, in- 
clining to the breeze, with one heavy flap of the 
canvas she glided ahead with her wonted ease. But 
the royal cruiser was a ship of ten thousand ! 
For twenty minutes, the nicest eye might have 
been at a loss to say which lost or which gained, so 
equally did the pursuer and the pursued hold on 
their way. As the brigantine was the first, how- 


HAZARDOUS SAILING. 


145 


ever, to reach the narrow passage formed by 
Blackwell’s, her motion was favored by the in- 
creasing power of the stream. It would seem 
that this change, slight as it was, did not escape 
the vigilance of those in the Coquette ; for the 
gun, which had been silent so long, again sent 
forth its flame and smoke. Four discharges, in 
less than so many minutes, threatened a serious 
disadvantage to the free-traders. Shot after 
shot passed among their spars, and opened wide 
rents in the canvas. A few more such assaults 
would deprive them of their means of motion. 
Aware of the crisis, the accomplished and prompt 
seaman who governed her movements needed 
but an instant to form his decision. 

The brigantine was now nearly up with the 
head of Blackwell’s. It was half-flood on a 
spring tide. The reef that projects from the 
western end of the island far into the reach be- 
low, was nearly covered ; but still enough was 
visible to show the nature of the barrier it pre- 
sented to a passage from one shore to the other. 
There was one rock, near the island itself, which 
lifted its black head high above the water. Be- 
tween this dark mass of stone and the land, there 
was an opening of some twenty fathoms in width. 
The Skimmer saw, by the even and unbroken 
waves that rolled through the passage, that the 
bottom lay less near to the surface of the water 
in that opening, than at any other point along the 
line of reef. He commanded the helm a-weather 
once more, and calmly trusted to the issue. 

Not a man on board that brigantine was aware 
that the shot of the royal , cruiser was whistling 
between their masts, and damaging their gear, as 
the little vessel glided into the narrow opening. 
A single blow on the rock would have been de- 
struction, and the lesser danger was entirely ab- 
sorbed in the greater. But when the passage 
was cleared, and the true stream in the other 
channel gained, a common shout proclaimed both 
the weight of their apprehension and their relief. 
In another minute the head of Blackwell’s pro- 
tected them from the shot of their pursuers. 

The length of the reef prevented the Coquette 
from changing her direction, and her draught 
of water closed the passage between the rock 
and the island. But the deviation from the 
straight course, and the passage of the eddies, 
had enabled the ship, which came steadily on, to 
range up nearly abeam of her chase. Both ves- 
sels, though separated by the long, narrow island, 
were now fairly in the force of those currents 
which glide so swiftly through the confined pas- 
sages. A sudden thought glanced on the mind 
of the Skimmer, and he lost no time in attempt- 
10 


ing to execute its suggestion. Again the helm was 
put up, and the image of the sea-green lady was 
seen struggling to stem the rapid waters. Had 
this effort been crowned with success, the tri- 
umph of her followers would have been complete; 
since the brigantine might have reached some of 
the eddies of the reach below, and, leaving her 
heavier pursuer to contend with the strength of 
the tide, she would have gained the open sea by 
the route over which she had so lately passed. 
But a single minute of trial convinced the bold 
mariner that his decision came too late. The 
wind was insufficient to pass the gorge ; and, en- 
vironed by the land, with a tide that grew strong- 
er at each moment, he saw that delay would be 
destruction. Once more the light vessel yielded 
to the helm, and, with every thing set to the best 
advantage, she darted along the passage. 

In the mean time, the Coquette had not been 
idle. Borne on by the breeze, and floating with 
the current, she had even gained upon her chase ; 
and, as her lofty and light sails drew strongest 
over the land, there was every prospect of her 
first reaching the eastern end of Blackwell’s. 
Ludlow saw his advantage, and made his prep- 
arations accordingly. 

There needs little explanation to render the 
circumstances which brought the royal cruiser up 
to town, intelligible to the reader. As the morn- 
ing approached, she had entered more deeply in- 
to the bay ; and when the light permitted, those 
on board her had been able to see that no vessel 
lay beneath the hills, nor in any of the more re- 
tired places of the estuary. A fisherman, how- 
ever, removed the last of their doubts, by report- 
ing that he had seen a vessel, whose description 
answered that of the Water-Witch, passing the 
Narrows in the middle watch. He added that a 
swiftly-rowing boat was, shortly after, seen pull- 
ing in the same direction. This clew had been 
sufficient. Ludlow made a signal for his own 
boats to close the passage of the Kills and the 
Narrows, and then, as has been seen, he steered 
directly into the harbor. 

When Ludlow found himself in the position 
just described, he turned all his attention to the 
double object of preserving his own vessel and 
arresting that of the free-trader. Though there 
was still a possibility of damaging the spars of 
the brigantine by firing across the land, the fee- 
bleness of his own crew, reduced as it was by 
more than half its numbers, the danger of doing 
injury to the farm-houses that were here and 
there placed along the low cliffs, and the necessi- 
ty of preparation to meet the critical pass ahead, 
united to prevent the attempt The ship was no 


146 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


sooner fairly entered into the pass between 
Blackwell’s and Nassau, than he issued an order 
to secure the guns that had been used, and to 
clear away the anchors. 

“ Cock-bill the bowers, sir,” he hastily added, 
in his orders to Trysail. “We are in no condition 
to sport with stock-and-fluke ; have every thing 
ready to let go at a word ; and see the grapnels 
ready — we will throw them aboard the smuggler 
as we close, and take him alive. Once fast to 
the chain, we are yet strong enough to haul him 
in under our scuppers, and to capture him with 
the pumps ! Is the signal still abroad for a 
pilot ? ” 

“We keep it flying, sir, but ’twill be a swift 
boat that overhauls us in this tide’s-way. The 
Gate begins at yonder bend in the land, Captain 
Ludlow.” 

“ Keep it abroad ; the lazy rogues are some- 
times loitering in the cove this side the rocks, 
and chance may throw one of them aboard us, as 
we pass. See to the anchors, sir, the ship is 
driving through this channel like a race-horse un- 
der the whip !” 

The men were hurriedly piped to this duty, 
while their young commander took his station on 
the poop, now anxiously examining the courses 
of the tides, and the positions of the eddies, and 
now turning his eyes toward the brigantine, 
whose upper spars and white sails were to be 
seen, at the distance of two hundred fathoms, 
glancing past the trees of the island. But miles 
and minutes seemed like rods and moments, in 
that swift current. Trysail had just reported the 
anchors ready, when the ship swept up abreast 
of the cove, where vessels often seek an anchor- 
age, to await favorable moments for entering the 
Gate. Ludlow saw, at a glance, that the place 
was entirely empty. For an instant he yielded 
to the heavy responsibility — a responsibility be- 
fore which a seaman sooner shrinks than before 
any other — that of charging himself with the du- 
ty of the pilot ; and he thought of running into 
the anchorage for shelter. But anoth er glimpse at 
the spars of the brigantine caused him to waver. 

“We are near the Gate, sir ! ” cried Trysail, 
in a voice that was full of warning. 

“ Yon daring marine^ stands on ! ” 

“The rogue sails his vessel without the 
queen’s permission, Captain Ludlow. They tell 
me this is a passage that has been well named ! ” 

“ I have been through it, and will vouch for 
its character — he shows no signs of anchoring ! ” 

“ If the woman who points his course can car- 
ry him through safely, she deserves her title. 
We are passing the cove, Captain Ludlow ! ” 


“ We are past it ! ” returned Ludlow, breath- 
ing heavily. “Let there be no whisper in the 
ship — pilot or no pilot, we now sink or swim ! ” 

Trysail had ventured to remonstrate, while 
there was a possibility of avoiding the danger ; 
but, like his commander, he saw that all depended 
now on their own coolness and care. He passed 
busily among the crew ; saw that each brace and 
bowline was manned; cautioned the few young 
officers who continued on board to vigilance ; and 
then awaited the orders of his superior, with the 
composure that is so necessary to a seaman in the 
moment of trial. Ludlow himself, while he felt 
the load of responsibility he had assumed, suc- 
ceeded equally well in maintaining an outward 
calm. The ship was irretrievably in the Gate, 
and no human power could retrace the step. At 
such moments of intense anxiety, the human 
mind is wont to seek support in the opinions of 
others. Notwithstanding the increasing velocity 
and the critical condition of his own vessel, Lud- 
low cast a glance, in order to ascertain the deter- 
mination of the “ Skimmer of the Seas.” Black- 
well’s was already behind them, and, as the two 
currents were again united, the brigantine had 
luffed up into the entrance of the dangerous pas- 
sage, and now followed within two hundred feet of 
the Coquette, directly in her wake. The bold and 
manly -looking mariner, who controlled her, stood 
between the knight-heads, just above the image 
of his pretended mistress, where he examined the 
foaming reefs, the whirling eddies, and the vary- 
ing currents, with folded arms and a riveted eye. 
A glance was exchanged between the two officers, 
and the free-trader raised his sea-cap. Ludlow 
was too courteous not to return the salutation, 
then all his senses were engrossed by the care of 
his ship. A rock lay before them, over which 
the water broke in a loud and unceasing roar. 
For an instant it seemed that the vessel could not 
avoid the danger ; then it was already past. 

“ Brace up ! ” said Ludlow, in the calm tones 
that denote a forced tranquillity. 

“Luff! ” called out the Skimmer, so quickly 
as to show that he took the movements of the 
cruiser for his guide. The ship came closer to 
the wind, but the sudden bend in the stream no 
longer permitted her to steer in a direct line with 
its course. Though drifting to windward with 
vast rapidity, her way through the water, which 
was greatly increased by the contrary actions of 
the wind and tide, caused the cruiser to shoot 
across the current ; while a reef, over which the 
water madly tumbled, lay immediately in her 
course. The danger seemed too imminent for the 
observances of nautical etiquette, and Trysail 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


147 


called aloud that the ship must be thrown aback, 
or she was lost. 

Hard-a-lee ! ” shouted Ludlow, in the strong 
voice of authority. “ Up with every thing — tacks 
and sheets ! — main-top-sail haul ! ” 

The ship seemed as conscious of her danger 
as any on her decks. The bows whirled away 
' from tiie foaming reef, and as the sails caught 
the breeze on their opposite surfaces, they aided 
in bringing her head in the contrary direction. 

■ A minute had scarcely passed ere she was aback, 

! and in the next she was about and full again. The 
1 intensity of the brief exertion kept Trysail fully 

employed ; but no sooner had he leisure to look 
ahead, than he again called aloud : 

“ Here is another roarer under her bows. — 

^ Luff, sir, luff, or we are upon it ! ” 

“ Hard down your helm ! ” once again came 
in deep tones from Ludlow. “ Let fly your sheets 
f — throw all aback, forward and aft — away with 

• the yards, with a will, men ! ” 

There was need for all of these precautions. 
Though the ship had so happily escaped the dan- 
> gers of the first reef, a turbulent and roaring cal- 
1 dron in the water, which, as representing the ele- 

• ment in ebullition, is called “ the Pot,” lay so 
directly before her as to render the danger ap- 

1 parently inevitable. But the power of the canvas 
1 was not lost on this trying occasion. The for- 
i ward motion of the ship diminished, and as the 
' current still swept her swiftly to windward, her 

■ i bows did not enter the rolling waters until the 

hidden rocks which caused the commotion had 
, been passed. The yielding vessel rose and fell in 
the agitated water, as if in homage to the whirl- 
pool ; but the deep keel was unharmed. 

“If the ship shoot ahead twice her length 
more, her bows will touch the eddy,” exclaimed 
the vigilant master. 

Ludlow looked around him, for a single mo- 
ment, in indecision. The waters were whirling 
and roaring on every side, and the sails began to 
lose their power, as the ship drew near the bluff 
which forms the second angle in this critical pass. 
He saw, by objects on the land, that he still ap- 
proached the shore, and he had recourse to the 
seaman’s last expedient. 

“ Eet go both anchors ! ” was the final order. 

The fall of the massive iron into the water 
was succeeded by the rumbling of the cable. 
The first effort to check the progress of the ves- 
sel appeared to threaten dissolution to the whole 
fabric, which trembled under the shock from its 
mast-heads to the keel. But the enormous rope 
again yielded, and smoke was seen rising round 
the wood which held it. The ship whirled with 


the sudden check, and sheered wildly in toward 
the shore. Met by the helm, and again checked 
by the efforts of the crew, she threatened to defy 
restraint. There was an instant when all on board 
expected to hear the cable snap ; but the upper 
sails filled, and, as the wind was now brought over 
the taffrail, the force of the current was in a 
great degree met by that of the breeze. 

The ship answered her helm and became sta- 
tionary, while the water foamed against her cut- 
water, as if she were driven ahead with the power 
of a brisk breeze. 

The time, from the moment when the Co- 
quette entered the Gate, to that when shO an- 
chored below “the Pot,” though the distance 
was nearly a mile, seemed but a minute. Certain, 
however, that his ship was now checked, the 
thoughts of Ludlow returned to their other duties 
with the quickness of lightning. 

“ Clear away the grapnels,” he eagerly cried 
— “ stand by to heave, and haul in !— heave ! ” 

But, that the reader may better comprehend 
the motive of this sudden order, he must consent 
to return to the entrance of the dangerous pas- 
sage, and accompany the Water-Witch, also, in 
her hazardous experiment to get through without 
a pilot. 

The abortive attempt of the brigantine to 
stem the tide at the western end of Blackwell’s 
will be remembered. It had no other effect than 
to place her pursuer more in advance, and to con- 
vince her own commander that he had now no 
other resource than to continue his course ; for, 
had he anchored, boats would have insured his 
capture. When the two vessels appeared off the 
eastern end of the island, the Coquette was ahead 
— a fact that the experienced free-trader did not 
at all regret. He profited by the circumstance 
to follow her movements, and to make a favora- 
ble entrance into the uncertain currents. To him, 
Hell-Gate was known only by its fearful reputa- 
tion among mariners ; and, unless he might avail 
himself of the presence of the cruiser, he had 
no other guide than his own general knowledge 
of the power of the element. 

When the Coquette had tacked, the calm and 
observant Skimmer was satisfied with throwing 
his head-sails flat to the mast. Prom that in- 
stant, the brigantine lay floating in the current, 
neither advancing nor receding a foot, and always 
keeping her position at a safe distance from the 
ship, that was so adroitly made to answer the pur- 
poses of a beacon. The sails were watched with 
the closest care ; and so nicely was the delicate 
machine tended, that it would have been, at any 
moment, in her people’s power to have lessened 


148 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


her way, by turning to the stream. The Coquette 
was followed till she anchored, and the call on 
board the cruiser to heave the grapnels had been 
given, because the brigantine was apparently 
floating directly down on her broadside. 

When the grapnels were hove from the royal 
cruiser, the free-trader stood on the low poop of 
his little vessel, within fifty feet of him who had 
issued the order. There was a smile of indifference 
on his firm mouth, while he silently waved a hand 
to his own crew. The signal was obeyed by 
bracing round their yards, and suffering all the 
canvas to fill. The brigantine shot quickly ahead, 
and the useless irons fell heavily into the water. 

“ Many thanks for your pilotage, Captain 
Ludlow 1 ” cried the daring and successful mari- 
ner of the shawl, as his vessel, borne on by wind 
and current, receded rapidly from the cruiser. 
“ You will find me off Montauk ; for affairs still 
keep us on the coast. Our lady has, however, 
put on the blue mantle ; and ere many settings 
of the sun, we shall look for deep water. Take 
good care of her majesty’s ship, I pray thee, 
for she has neither a more beautiful nor a 
faster ! ” 

One thought succeeded another, with the 
tumult of a torrent, in the mind of Ludlow. As 
the brigantine lay directly under his broadside, 
the first impulse was to use his guns ; at the next 
moment he was conscious that, before they could 
be cleared, distance would render them useless. 
His lips had nearly parted with intent to order 
the cables cut, but he remembered the speed of 
the brigantine, and hesitated. A sudden freshen- 
ing of the breeze decided his course. Finding 
that the ship was enabled to keep her station, he 
ordered the crew to thrust the whole of the enor- 
mous ropes through the hawse-holes ; and, freed 
from the restraint, he abandoned the anchors, 
until an opportunity to reclaim them should offer. 

The operation of slipping the cables con- 
sumed several minutes ; and when the Coquette, 
with every thing set, was again steering in pursuit, 
the Water-Witch was already beyond the reach 
of her guns. Both vessels, however, held on 
their way, keeping as near as possible to the cen- 
tre of the stream, and trusting more to fortune, 
than to any knowledge of the channel, for safety. 

When passing the two small islands that lie 
at no great distance from the Gate, a boat was 
seen moving toward the royal cruiser. A man in 
it pointed to the signal, which was still flying, and 
offered his services. 

“ Tell me,” demanded Ludlow, eagerly, “ has 
yonder brigantine taken a pilot ? ” 

“ By her movements, I judge not. She 


brushed the sunken rock, off the mouth of Flush- 
ing Bay ; and, as she passed, I heard the song of 
the lead. I should have gone on board myself, 
but the fellow rather flies than sails ; and, as for 
signals, he seems to mind none but his own ! ” 

“ Bring us up with him, and fifty guineas is 
thy reward ! ” 

The slow-moving pilot, who in truth had just 
awakened from a refreshing sleep, opened hi3 
eyes, and seemed to gather a new impulse from 
the promise. When his questions were asked 
and answered, he began deliberately to count on 
his fingers all the chances that still existed of a 
vessel, whose crew was ignorant of the navigation, 
falling into their hands. 

“Admitting that, by keeping mid-channel, 
she goes clear of White Stone and Frogs,” he 
said, giving to Throgmorton’s its vulgar name, 
“he must be a wizard, to know that the Stepping- 
Stones lie directly across his course, and that a 
vessel must steer away northerly, or bring up on 
rocks that will as surely hold him as if he were 
built there. Then he runs his chance for the 
Executioners, which are as prettily placed as needs 
be, to make our trade flourish-; besides the Mid- 
dle Ground farther east, though I count but little 
on that, having often tried to find it myself, with- 
out success. Courage, noble captain ! if the fel- 
low be the man you say, we shall get a nearer 
look at him before the sun sets ; for certainly he 
who has run the Gate without a pilot in safety, 
has had as much good luck as can fall to his share 
in one day.” 

The opinion of the East River Branch proved 
erroneous. Notwithstanding the hidden perils 
by which she was environed, the Water-Witch 
continued her course, with a speed that increased 
as the wind rose with the sun, and with an im- 
punity from harm that amazed all who were in 
the secret of her situation. Off Throgmorton’s 
there was, in truth, a danger that might even 
have baffled the sagacity of the followers of the 
mysterious lady, had they not been aided by acci- 
dent. This is the point where the straitened arm 
of the sea expands into the basin of the sound. 
A broad and inviting passage lies directly before 
the navigator, while, like the flattering prospects 
of life, numberless hidden obstacles are in wait 
to arrest the unheeding and ignorant. 

The “ Skimmer of the Seas ” was deeply prac- 
tised in all the intricacies and dangers of shoals 
and rocks. Most of his life had been passed in 
threading the one or in avoiding the other. So 
keen and quick had his eye become, in detecting 
the presence of any of those signs which forewarn 
the mariner of danger, that a ripple on the surface, 


A STRANGER IN THE OFFING. 


or a deeper shade in the color of the water, rare- 
ly escaped his vigilance. Seated on the topsail- 
yard of his brigantine, he had overlooked the 
passage from the moment they were through the 
Gate, and issued his mandates to those below with 
a precision and promptitude that were not sur- 
passed by the trained conductor of the Coquette 
himself. Rut when his sight embraced the wide 
reach of water that lay in front, as his little ves- 
sel swept round the headland of Throgmorton, he 
believed there no longer existed a reason for so 
much care. Still there was a motive for hesita- 
tion. A heavily-moulded and dull-sailing coaster 
was going eastward not a league ahead of the 
brigantine, while one of the light sloops of those 
waters was coming westward still farther in the 
distance. Notwithstanding the wind was favor- 
able to each alike, both vessels had deviated from 
the direct line, and were steering toward a com- 
mon centre, near an island that was placed more 
than a mile to the northward of the straight 
course. A mariner, like him of the India shawl, 
could not overlook so obvious an intimation of a 
change in the channel. The Water-Witch was 
kept away, and her lighter sails were lowered, in 
order to allow the royal cruiser, whose lofty can- 
vas was plainly visible above the land, to draw 
near. When the Coquette was seen also to di- 
verge, there no longer remained a doubt of the 
direction necessary to be taken ; and every thing 
was quickly set upon the brigantine, even to her 
| studding-sails. Long ere she reached the island, 

I the two coasters had met, and each again changed 
: its course, reversing that on which the other had 
just been sailing. There was, in these move- 
ments, as plain an explanation as a seaman could 
desire, that the pursued were right. On reach- 
ing the island, therefore, they again luffed into 
the wake of the schooner ; and, having nearly 
crossed the sheet of water, they passed the 
coaster, receiving an assurance, in words, that all 
was now plain sailing before them. 

Such was the famous passage of the “ Skimmer 
of the Seas ” through the multiplied and hidden 
dangers of the eastern channel. To those who 
have thus accompanied him, step by step, through 
its intricacies and alarms, there may seem noth- 
ing extraordinary in the event ; but, coupled as it 
was with the character previously earned by that 
bold mariner, and occurring as it did in an age 
when men were more disposed than at present to 
put faith in the marvellous, the reader will not 
be surprised to learn that it greatly increased his 
reputation for daring, and had no small influence 
on an opinion, which was by no means uncommon, 
that the dealers in contraband were singularly 


149 

favored by a power which greatly exceeded that 
of Queen Anne and all her servants. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“ Thou shaft see me at Philippi.” 

Shakespeare. 

The commander of her Britannic majesty’s 
ship Coquette slept that nigbt in the hammock- 
cloths. Before the sun set, the light and swift 
brigantine, by following the gradual bend of the 
land, had disappeared in the eastern board ; and 
it was no longer a question of overtaking her by 
speed. Still sail was crowded on the royal cruiser ; 
and, long ere the period when Ludlow threw him- 
self in his clothes between the ridge-ropes of 
the quarter-deck, the vessel had gained the broad- 
est part of the sound, and was already approach- 
ing the islands that form the “ Race.” 

Throughout the whole of that long and anxious 
day, the young sailor had held no communication 
with the immates of the cabin. The servants of 
the ship had passed to and fro ; but, though the 
door seldom opened that he did not bend his 
eyes feverishly in its direction, neither the aider- 
man, his niece, the captive, nor even Francis or 
the negress, made their appearance on the deck. 
If any there felt an interest in the result of the 
chase, it was concealed in a profound and almost 
mysterious silence. Determined not to be out- 
done in indifference, and goaded by feelings which 
with all his pride he could not overcome, our 
young seaman took possession of the place of rest 
we have mentioned, without using any measures 
to resume the intercourse. 

When the first watch of the night was come, 
sail was shortened on the ship, and from that mo- 
ment till the day dawned again, her captain 
seemed buried in sleep. With the appearance of 
the sun, however, he arose, and commanded the 
canvas to be spread once more, and every exer- 
tion made to drive the vessel forward to her ob- 
ject. 

The Coquette reached the Race early in the 
day, and shooting through the passage on an ebb- 
tide, she was off Montauk at noon. No sooner 
had the ship drawn past the cape, and reached a 
point where she felt the breeze and the waves of 
the Atlantic, than men were sent aloft, and twen- 
ty eyes were curiously employed in examining 
the offing. Ludlow remembered the promise of 
the Skimmer to meet him at that spot ; and, not- 
withstanding the motives which the latter might 
be supposed to have for avoiding the interview, 


150 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


so great was the influence of the free-trader’s man- 
ner and character, that the young captain enter- 
tained a secret expectation the promise would be 
kept. 

“ The offing is clear ! ” said the young captain, 
in a tone of disappointment, when he lowered his 
glass ; “ yet that rover does not seem a man to 
hide his head in fear — ” 

“ Fear — that is to say, fear of a Frenchman — 
and a decent respect for her majesty’s cruisers, 
are very different sorts of things,” returned the 
master. “ I never got a bandanna or a bottle, of 
your Cognac ashore in my life, that I did not 
think every man that I passed in the street could 
see the spots in the one, or scent the flavor of the 
other ; but then I never supposed this shyness 
amounted to more than a certain suspicion in my 
own mind that other people know when a man is 
running on an illegal course. I suppose that one 
of your rectors, who is snugly anchored for life in 
a good warm living would call this conscience ; 
but, for my own part, Captain Ludlow, though no 
great logician in matters of this sort, I have al- 
ways believed that it was natural concern of mind 
lest the articles should be seized. If this ‘ Skim- 
mer of the Seas ’ comes out to give us another 
chase in rough water, he is by no means as good 
a judge of the difference between a large and a 
small vessel as I had thought him — and I confess, 
sir, I should have more hopes of taking him were 
the woman under his bowsprit fairly burnt.” 

“ The offing is clear.” 

“ That it is, with a show of the wind holding 
here at south-half-south. This bit of water that 
we have passed between yon island and the main, 
is lined with bays ; and while we are here looking 
out for them on the high-seas, the cunning varlets 
may be trading in any one of the fifty good basins 
that lie between the cape and the place where we 
lost him. For aught we know, he may have run 
westward again in the night-watches, and be at 
this moment laughing in his sleeve at the man- 
ner in which he dodged the cruiser.” 

“ There is too much truth in what you say, 
Trysail ; for, if the Skimmer be now disposed to 
avoid us, he has certainly the means in his 
power.” 

“ Sail, ho ! ” cried the lookout on the maintop- 
gallant-yard. 

“ Where-away ? ” 

“ Broad on the weather-beam, sir ; here in a 
range with the light cloud that is just lifting from 
the water.” 

“ Can you make out the rig ? ” 

“’Fore George, the fellow is right!” inter- 
rupted the master. “ The cloud caused her to be 


unseen, but here she is, sure enough, a fall-rigged 
ship under easy canvas, with her head to the 
westward ! ” 

The look of Ludlow through the glass was 
long, attentive, and grave. 

“We are weak-handed to deal with a stran- 
ger,” he said, when he returned the instrument to 
Trysail. “You see he has nothing but his top- 
sails set, a show of canvas that would satisfy no 
trader in a breeze like this ! ” 

The master was silent, but his look was even 
longer and more critical than that of his captain. 
When it had ended, he cast a cautious glance 
toward the diminished crew, who were curiously 
regarding the vessel that had now become suffi- 
ciently distinct by a change in the position of the 
cloud, and then answered in an undertone : 

“ ’Tis a Frenchman, or I am a whale ! One 
may see it by his short yards, and the hoist of his 
sails, ay, and ’tis a cruiser, too, for no man who 
had a profit to make on his freight would be ly- 
ing there under short canvas, -and his port within 
a day’s run.” 

“ Your opinion is my own ; would to Heaven 
our people were all here ! This is but a short 
complement to take into action with a ship whose 
force seems equal to our own. What number 
can we count ? ” 

“We are short of seventy — a small muster 
for four-and-twenty guns, with yards like these to 
handle.” 

“ And yet the port may not be insulted ! We 
are known to be on this coast — ” 

“We are seen ! ” interrupted the master. 
“ The fellow has -wore ship, and he is already set- 
ting his top-gallant sails.” 

There no longer remained any choice between 
downright flight and preparations for combat. 
The former would have been easy, for an hour 
would have taken the ship within the cape ; but 
the latter was far more in consonance with the 
spirit of the service to which the Coquette be- 
longed. The order was given, therefore, for “ all 
hands to clear ship for action ! ” It was in the 
reckless nature of sailors to exult in this sum- 
mons ; for success and audacity go hand in hand, 
and long familiarity with the first had, even at 
that early day, given a confidence that often ap- 
proached temerity to the seamen of Great Britain 
and her dependencies. The mandate to prepare 
for battle was received by the feeble crew of the 
Coquette as it had often been received before 
when her decks were filled with the number ne- 
cessary to give full efficiency to her armament; 
though a few of the older and more experienced 
of the mariners, men in whom confidence had 


PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE. 


• 151 


been diminished by time, were seen to shake their 
heads as if they doubted the prudence of the in- 
tended contest. 

Whatever might have been the secret hesita- 
tion of Ludlow when the character and force of 
his enemies were clearly established, he betrayed 
no signs of irresolution from the moment when 
his decision appeared to be taken. The necessa- 
ry orders were issued calmly, and with the clear- 
ness and readiness that perhaps constitute the 
greatest merit of a naval captain. The yards 
were slung in chains ; the booms were sent down ; 
the lofty sails were furled, and, in short, all the 
preparations that were then customary were made 
with the usual promptitude and skill. Then the 
drum beat to quarters, and, when the people were 
at their stations, their young commander had a 
better opportunity of examining into the true ef- 
ficiency of his ship. Calling to the master, he 
ascended the poop, in order that they might con- 
fer together with less risk of being overheard } 
and at the same time better observe the manoeu- 
vres of the enemy. 

The stranger had, as Trysail perceived, sud- 
denly wore round on his heel, and laid his head 
to the northward. The change in the course 
brought him before the wind, and, as he imme- 
diately spread all the canvas that would draw, he 
was approaching fast. During the time occupied 
in preparation on board the Coquette, his hull 
had risen as it were from out of the water; and 
Ludlow and his companion had not studied his 
appearance long, from the poop, before the streak 
of white paint, dotted with ports, which marks a 
vessel-of-war, became visible to the naked eye. 
As the cruiser of Queen Anne continued also to 
steer in the direction of the chase, half an hour 
more brought them sufficiently near to each other, 
to remove all doubts of their respective characters 
and force. The stranger then came to the wind, 
and made his preparations for combat. 

“ The fellow shows a stout heart and a warm 
battery,” observed the master, when the broad- 
side of the enemy became visible, by this change 
in his position. “ Six-and-twenty teeth, by my 
count ! though the eye-teeth must be wanting, or 
he would never be so foolhardy as to brave Queen 
Anne’s Coquette in this impudent fashion ! A 
prettily-turned boat, Captain Ludlow, and one 
nimble enough in her movements. But look at 
his top-sails. Just like his character, sir, all 
hoist ; and with little or no head to them. I’ll 
not deny but the hull is well enough, for that is 
no more than carpenter’s work; but when it 
comes to the rig, or trim, or cut of a sail, how 
should a l’Orient or a Brest man understand what 


is comely ? There is no equalling, after all, a 
good, wholesome, honest English topsail ; which 
is neither too narrow in the head, nor too deep in 
the hoist ; with a bolt-rope of exactly the true 
size, robands and earings and bowlines that look 
as if they grew there, and sheets that neither na- 
ture nor art could alter to advantage. Here are 
these Americans, now, making innovations in ship- 
building, and in the sparring of vessels, as if any 
thing could be gained by quitting the customs 
and opinions of their ancestors ! Any man may 
see that all they have about them, that is good 
for any thing, is English ; while all their nonsense 
and new-fangled changes come from their own 
vanity.” 

“ They get along, Master Trysail, notwith- 
standing,” returned the captain, who, though a 
sufficiently loyal subject, could not forget his 
birthplace; “and many is the time this ship, 
one of the finest models of Plymouth, has been 
bothered to overhaul the coasters of these seas. 
Here is the brigantine, that has laughed at us on 
our best tack, and with our choice of wind.” 

“ One cannot say where that brigantine was 
built, Captain Ludlow. It may be here, it may 
be there — for I look upon her as a nondescript, 
as old Admiral Top used to call the galliots of 
the north seas — but, concerning these new Amer- 
ican fashions, of what use are they, I would ask, 
Captain Ludlow ? In the first place, they are 
neither English nor French, which is as much as 
to confess they are altogether outlandish : in the 
second place, they disturb the harmony and estab- 
lished usages among wrights and sail-makers, and, 
though they may get along well enough .now, 
sooner or later, take my word for it, they will- 
come to harm. It is unreasonable to suppose 
that a new people can discover any thing in the 
construction of a ship, that has escaped the wis- 
dom of seamen as old. The Frenchman is clew- 
ing up his top-gallant-sails, and means to let them 
hang; which is much the same as condemning 
them at once — and, therefore, I am of opinion 
that all these new fashions will come to no good.” 

“ Your reasoning is absolutely conclusive, 
Master Trysail,” returned the captain, whose 
thoughts were differently employed. “ I agree 
with you, it would be safer for the stranger to 
send down his yards.” 

“ There is something manly and becoming in 
seeing a ship strip herself, as she comes into ac- 
tion, sir ! It is like a boxer taking off his jacket, 
with the intention of making a fair stand-up fight 
for it. — That fellow is filling away again, and 
means to manoeuvre before he comes up fairly to 
his work.” 


152 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


The eye of Ludlow had never quitted the 
stranger. He saw that the moment for serious 
action was not distant ; and, bidding Trysail keep 
the vessel on her course, he descended to the 
quarter-deck. For a single instant, the young 
commander paused, with his hand on the door 
of the cabin; then, overcoming his reluctance, he 
entered the apartment. 

The Coquette was built after a fashion much 
in vogue a century since, and which, by a fickle- 
ness that influences marine architecture as well as 
less important things, is again coming into use 
for vessels of her force. The accommodations of 
the commander were on the same deck with the 
batteries of the ship, and they were frequently 
made to contain two or even four guns of the 
armament. When Ludlow entered his cabin, 
therefore, he found a crew stationed around the 
gun which was placed on the side next the enemy, 
and all the customary arrangements made which 
precede a combat. The state-rooms abaft, how- 
ever, as well as the little apartment which lay be- 
tween them, were closed. Glancing his eye about 
him, and observing the carpenters in readiness, 
he made a signal for them to knock away the 
bulkheads, and lay the whole of the fighting part 
of the ship in common. While this duty was go- 
ing on, he entered the after-cabin. 

Alderman Van Beverout and his companions 
were found together, and evidently in expectation 
of the visit they now received. Passing coolly by 
the former, Ludlow approached his niece, and, 
taking her hand, he led her to the quarter-deck, 
making a sign for her female attendant to follow. 
Descending into the depths of the ship, the cap- 
tain conducted his charge into a part of the 
berth-deck that was below the water-line, and as 
much removed from danger as she could well be, 
without encountering a foul air, or sights that 
might be painful to one of her sex and habits. 

“ Here is as much safety as a vessel-of-war 
affords in a moment like this,” he said, when his 
companion was silently seated on a mess-chest. 
“ On no account quit the spot, till I — or some 
other — advise you it maybe done without hazard.” 

Alida had submitted to be led thither without 
a question. Though her color went and came, 
she saw the little dispositions that were made for 
her comfort, and without which, even at that mo- 
ment, the young sailor could not quit her in the 
same silence. But when they were ended, and 
her conductor was about to retire, his name es- 
caped her lips by an exclamation that seemed 
hurried and involuntary. 

“ Can I do aught else to quiet your apprehen- 
sions ? ” the young man inquired, though he 


studiously avoided her eye, as he turned to put 
the question. “ I know your strength of mind, 
and that you have a resolution which exceeds the 
courage of your sex ; else I would not venture so 
freely to point out the danger which may beset 
one, even here, without a self-command and dis- 
cretion that shall restrain all sudden impulses of 
fear.” 

“ Notwithstanding your generous interpretation 
of my character, Ludlow, I am but woman after 
all.” 

“ I did not mistake you for an amazon,” re- 
turned the young man, smiling, perceiving that she 
checked her words by a sudden effort. “ All I 
expect from you is the triumph of reason over 
female terror. I shall not conceal that the odds 
— perhaps I may say that the chances are against 
us ; yet the enemy must pay for my ship ere he 
has her ! She will be none the worse defended, 
Alida, from the consciousness that thy liberty 
and comfort depend in some measure on our ex- 
ertions. — Would you say more ? ” 

La belle Barberie struggled with herself, and 
she became calm, at least in exterior. 

“ There has been a singular misconception be- 
tween us, but this is no moment for exclamation ! 
Ludlow, I would not have you part with me, at 
such a time as this, with that cold and reproach- 
ful eye ! ” 

She paused. When the young man ventured 
to raise his look, he saw the beautiful girl stand- 
ing with a hand extended toward him, as if offer- 
ing a pledge of amity ; while the crimson on her 
cheek, and her yielding but half-averted eye, 
spoke with the eloquence of maiden modesty. 
Seizing the hand, he answered, hastily : 

“ Time was when this action would have made 
me happy — ” 

The young naan paused, for his gaze had un- 
consciously become riveted on the rings of the 
hand he held. Alida understood the look, and, 
drawing one of the jewels, she offered it with a 
smile that was as attractive as her beauty. 

“One of these may be spared,” she said. 
“ Take it, Ludlow ; and when thy present duty 
shall be performed, return it, as a gage that I 
have promised that no explanation which you may 
have a right to ask shall be withheld.” 

The young man took the ring and forced it on 
the smallest of his fingers, in a mechanical man- 
ner, and with a bewildered look that seemed to 
inquire if some one of those which remained was 
not the token of a plighted faith. It is probable 
that he might have continued the discourse, had 
not a gun been fired from the enemy. It recalled 
him to the more serious business of the hour. 


LUDLOW’S SURPRISE. 


Already more than half disposed to believe all he 
could wish, he raised the fair hand, which had 
just bestowed the boon, to his lips, and rushed 
upon deck. 

“ Th e monsieur is beginning to bluster,”* said 
Trysail, who had witnessed the descent of his 
commander, at that moment and on such an er- 
rand, with great dissatisfaction. “ Although his 
shot fell short, it is too much to let a Frenchman 
have the credit of the first word.” 

“ He has merely given the weather-gun, the 
signal of defiance. Let him come down, and he 
will not find us in a hurry to leave him ! ” 

“No, no : as for that, we are snug enough ! ” 
returned the master, chuckling as he surveyed 
the half-naked spars, and the light top-hamper, 
to which he had himself reduced the ship. “ If 
running is to be our play, we have made a false 
move at the beginning of the game. These top- 
sails, spanker, and jib, make a show that says 
more for bottom than for speed. Well, come 
: what will of this affair, it will leave me a master, 
though it is beyond the power of the best duke 
! in England to* rob me of my share of the honor ! ” 

With this consolation for his perfectly hope- 
less condition as respects promotion, the old sea- 
man walked forward, examining critically into the 
state of the vessel ; while his young commander, 
having cast a look about him, motioned to his 
f prisoner and the alderman to follow to the poop. 

“I do not pretend to inquire into the nature 
of the tie which unites you with some in this 
ship,” Ludlow commenced, addressing his words 
to Seadrift, though he kept his gaze on the recent 
gift of Alida, “ but, that it must be strong, is evi- 
dent by the interest they have taken in your fate. 
One who is thus esteemed should set a value on 
himself. How far you have trifled with the laws, 

I do not wish to say ; but here is an opportunity 
to redeem some of the public favor. You are a 
seaman, and need not be told that my ship is not 
as strongly manned as one could wish her at this 
moment, and that the services of every English- 
man will be welcome. Take charge of these six 
guns, and depend on my honor that your devo- 
tion to the flag shall not go unrequited.” 

“ You much mistake my vocation, noble cap- 
tain,” returned the dealer in contraband, faintly 
laughing. “ Though one of the seas, I am one 
more used to the calm latitudes than to these 
whirlwinds of war. You have visited the brigan- 
tine of our mistress, and must have seen that her 
temple resembles that of Janus more than that of 
Mars. The deck of the Water-Witch has none 
of this frowning garniture of artillery.” 

Ludlow listened in amazement. Surprise, in- 


153 

credulity, and scorn, were each in turn expressed 
in his frowning countenance. 

“ This is unbecoming language for one of your 
calling,” he said, scarce deeming it necessary to 
conceal the contempt he felt. “Do you acknowl- 
edge fealty to this ensign — are you an English- 
man ? ” 

“ I am such as Heaven was pleased to make 
me — fitter for the zephyr than the gale — the jest 
than the war-shout — the merry moment than the 
angry mood.”’ 

“ Is this the man whose name for daring has 
passed into a proverb — the dauntless, reckless, 
skilful ‘ Skimmer of the Seas ? ’ ” 

“North is not more removed from south than 
I from him in the qualities you seek ! It was not 
my duty to undeceive you as to the value of your 
captive, while he whose services are beyond price 
to our mistress was still on the coast. So far 
from being him you name, brave captain, I claim 
to be no more than one of his agents, who, having 
some experience in the caprices of woman, he 
trusts to recommend his wares to female fancies. 
Though so useless in inflicting injuries, I may 
make bold, however, to rate myself as excellent 
at consolation. Suffer that I appease the fears of 
la belle Barberie during the coming tumult, and 
you shall own that one more skilful in that mer- 
ciful office is rare indeed ! ” 

“ Comfort whom, where, and what thou wilt, 
miserable effigy of manhood — but hold, there is 
less of terror than of artifice in that lurking smile 
and treacherous eye ! ” 

“ Discredit both, generous captain ! On the 
faith of one who can be sincere at need, a whole- 
some fear is uppermost, whatever else the disobe- 
dient members may betray. I could fain weep 
rather than be thought valiant just now ! ” 

Ludlow listened in wonder. He had raised an 
arm to arrest the retreat of the young mariner, 
and by a natural movement his hand slid along 
the limb it had grasped, until it held that of Sea- 
drift. The instant he touched the soft and un- 
gloved palm, an idea, as novel as it was sudden, 
crossed his brain. Retreating a step or two, he 
examined the light and agile form of the other, 
from head to feet. The frown of displeasure, 
which had clouded his brow, changed to a look 
of unfeigned surprise ; and, for the first time, the 
tones of the voice came over his recollection as 
being softer and more melodious than is wont in 
man. 

“ Truly, thou art not the ‘ Skimmer of the 
Seas ! ’ ” he exclaimed, when his short examina- 
tion was ended. 

“ No truth more certain. I am one of little 


154 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


account in this rude encounter, though, were that 
gallant seaman here,” and the color deepened on 
the cheeks of Seadrift as he spoke, “ his arm and 
counsel might prove a host ! Oh ! I have seen 
him in scenes far more trying than this, when the 
elements have conspired with other dangers. 
The example of his steadiness and spirit has giv- 
en courage even to the feeblest heart in the brig- 
antine ! Now suffer me to offer consolation to the 
timid Alida.” 

“ I should little merit her gratitude, were the 
request refused,” returned Ludlow. “ Go, gay and 
gallant Master Seadrift ! if the enemy fears thy 
presence on the deck as little as I dread it with 
la belle Barberie, thy services here will be use- 
less ! ” 

Seadrift colored to the temples, crossed his 
arms meekly on his bosom, sank in an attitude 
of leave-taking, that was so equivocal as to cause 
the attentive and critical young captain to smile, 
and then glided past him and disappeared through 
a hatchway. 

The eye of Ludlow followed the active and 
graceful form, while it continued in sight ; and, 
when it was no longer visible, he faced the aider- 
man with a look which seemed to inquire how 
far he might be acquainted with the true charac- 
ter of the individual who had been the cause of so 
much pain to himself. 

“ Have I done well, sir, in permitting a sub- 
ject of Queen Anne to quit us at this emergency ? ” 
he demanded, observing that either the phlegm 
or self-command of Myndert rendered him proof 
to scrutiny. 

“ The lad may be termed contraband of war,” 
returned the alderman, without moving a muscle ; 
“ an article that will command a better price in a 
quiet than in a turbulent market. In short, Cap- 
tain Cornelius Ludlow, this Master Seadrift will 
not answer thy purpose at all in combat.” 

“ And is this example of heroism to go any 
further, or may I count on the assistance of Mr. 
Alderman VanBeverout? — He has the reputation 
of a loyal citizen.” 

“As for loyalty,” returned the alderman, “so 
far as saying ‘ God bless the queen,’ at city feasts 
will go, none are more so. A wish is not an ex- 
pensive return for the protection of her fleets and 
armies, and I wish her and you success against 
the enemy, with all my heart. But I never ad- 
mired the manner in which the States-General 
were dispossessed of their territories on this con- 
tinent, Master Ludlow, and therefore I pay the 
Stuarts little more than I owe them in law.” 

“ Which is as much as tb say, that you will 
join the gay smuggler, in administering consola- 


tion to one whose spirit places her above the 
need of such succor.” 

“Not so fast, young gentleman. We mer- 
cantile men like to see offsets in our books, before 
they are balanced. Whatever may be my opin- 
ion of the reigning family, which I only utter to 
you in confidence, and not as coin that is to pass 
from hand to hand, my love for the Grand Mo- 
narque is still less. Louis is at loggerheads with 
the United Provinces, as well as with our gracious 
queen ; and I see no harm in opposing one of his 
cruisers, since they certainly annoy trade, and 
render returns for investments inconveniently un- 
certain. I have heard artillery in my time, hav- 
ing in my younger days led a band of city volun- 
teers in many a march and countermarch around 
the Bowling Green ; and for the honor of the 
second ward of the good town of Manhattan, I 
am now ready to undertake to show that all 
knowledge of the art has not entirely departed 
from me.” 

“ That is a manly answer, and, provided it be 
sustained by a corresponding countenance, there 
shall be no impertinent inquiry into motives. 
’Tis the officer that makes the ship victorious ; 
for, when he sets a good example and understands 
his duty, there is little fear of the men. Choose j 
your position among any of these guns, and we will 
make an effort to disappoint yon servants of 
Louis, whether we do it as Englishmen, or only 
as the allies of the Seven Provinces.” 

Myndert descended to the quarter-deck, and i 
having deliberately deposited his coat on the cap- 
stan, replaced his wig by a handkerchief, and tight- 
ened the buckle that did the office of suspenders, 
he squinted along the guns, with a certain air that 
served to assure the spectators he had at least no 
dread of the recoil. 

Alderman Van Beverout was a personage far 
too important not to be known by most of those 
who frequented the goodly town of which he was 
a civic officer. His presence, therefore, among 
the men, not a few of whom were natives of the j 
colony, had a salutary effect : some yielding to the 
sympathy which is natural to a hearty and en- 
couraging example, while it is possible there were 
a few that argued less of the danger, in conse- 
quence of the indifference of a man who, being 
so rich, had so many motives to take good care 
of bis person. Be this as it might, the burgher 
was received by a cheer which drew a short but 
pithy address from him, in which he exhorted his 
companions in arms to do their duty, in a manner 
which should teach the Frenchmen the wisdom 
of leaving that coast in future free from annoy- 
ance ; while he wisely abstained from all the com- 


DUMONT DE LA ROCHEFORTE. 


155 


monplace allusions to king and country — a sub- 
ject to which he felt his inability to do proper 
justice. 

“Let every man remember that cause for 
courage, which maybe most agreeable to his own 
habits and opinions,” concluded this imitator of 
the Hannibals and Scipios of old ; “ for that is 
the surest and the briefest method of bringing 
his mind into an obstinate state. In my own 
case, there is no want of motive ; and I dare say 
each one of you may find some sufficient reason 
for entering heart and hand into this battle. Pro- 
tests and credit ! what would become of the 
affairs of the best house in the colonies, were its 
principal to be led a captive to Brest or l’Orient ? 
It might derange the business of the whole city. 
I’ll not offend your patriotism with such a sup- 
position, but at once believe that your minds are 
resolved, like my own, to resist to the last ; for 
this is an interest which is general, as all ques- 
tions of a commercial nature become, through 
their influence on the happiness and prosperity 
of society.” 

Having terminated his address in so apposite 
and public-spirited a manner, the worthy burgher 
hemmed loudly, and resumed his accustomed si- 
lence, perfectly assured of his own applause. If 
the matter of Myndert’s discourse wears too much 
the air of an undivided attention to his own in- 
terests, the reader will not forget it is by this 
concentration of individuality that most of the 
mercantile prosperity of the world is achieved. 
The seamen listened with admiration, for they 
understood no part of the appeal, and, next to a 
statement which shall be so lucid as to induce 
every hearer to believe it is no more than a happy 
explanation of his own ideas, that which is un- 
intelligible is apt to unite most suffrages in its 
favor. 

“You see your enemy, and you know your 
work ! ” said the clear voice of Ludlow, who, as 
he passed among the people of the Coquette, 
spoke to them in that steady, unwavering tone 
which, in moments of danger, goes to the heart. 

“ I shall not pretend that we are as strong as I 
could wish ; but the greater the necessity for a 
strong pull, the readier a true seaman will be to 
give it. There are no nails in that ensign. When 
I am dead, you may pull it down if you please ; 
but so long as I live, my men, there it shall fly ! 
And now, one cheer to show your humor, and let 
the rest of your noise come from the guns.” 

The crew complied, with a full-mouthed and 
hearty hurrah ! — Trysail assured a young, laugh- 
ing, careless midshipman, who even at that mo- 
ment could enjoy an uproar, that he had seldom 


heard a prettier piece of sea-eloquence than that 
which had just fallen from the captain ; it being 
both “ neat and gentleman-like.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ Sir, it is 

A charge too heavy for my strength ; hut yet 
We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake, 

To the extreme edge of hazard.” 

All’s well that ends well. 

The vessel, which appeared so inopportunely 
for the safety of the ill-manned British cruiser, 
was, in truth, a ship that had roved from among 
the islands of the Caribbean Sea, in quest of 
some such adventure as that which now presented 
itself. She was called La Belle Fontange, and her 
commander, a youth of two-and-twenty, was al- 
ready well known in the salons of the Marais, 
and behind the walls of the Rue Basses des Rem- 
parts, as one of the most gay and amiable of 
those who frequented the former, and one of the 
most spirited and skilful among the adventurers 
who sometimes trusted to their address in the 
latter. Rank, and influence at Versailles, had 
procured for the young Chevalier Dumont de la 
Rocheforte a command to which he could lay no 
claim either by his experience or his services. 
His mother, a near relative of one of the beauties 
of the court, had been commanded to use sea- 
bathing, as a preventive against the consequences 
of the bite of a rapid lap-dog. By way of a suit- 
able episode to the long descriptions she was in the 
daily habit of writing to those whose knowledge 
of her new element was limited to the constant 
view of a few ponds and ditches teeming with 
carp, or an occasional glimpse of some of the tur- 
bid reaches of the Seine, she had vowed to de- 
vote her youngest child to Neptune ! In due time, 
that is to say, while the poetic sentiment was at 
the access, the young chevalier was duly enrolled, 
and, in a time that greatly anticipated all regular 
and judicious preferment, he was placed in com- 
mand of the corvette in question and sent to the 
Indies to gain glory for himself and his country. 

The Chevalier Dumont de la Rocheforte was 
brave, but his courage was not the calm and si- 
lent self-possession of a seaman. Like himself, 
it was lively, buoyant, thoughtless, bustling, and 
full of animal feeling. He had all the pride of a 
gentleman, and unfortunately for the duty which 
he had now for the first time to perform, one of 
its dictates taught him to despise that species of 
mechanical knowledge which it was, just at this 


156 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


moment, so important to the commander of La 
Fontange to possess. He could dance to admira- 
tion, did the honors of his cabin with faultless 
elegance, and had caused the death of an excel- 
lent mariner, who had accidentally fallen over- 
board, by jumping into the sea to aid him, without 
knowing how to swim a stroke himself — a rashness 
that had diverted those exertions which might 
have saved the unfortunate sailor, from the assist- 
ance of the subordinate to the safety of his supe- 
rior. He wrote sonnets prettily, and had some 
ideas of the new philosophy which was just begin- 
ning to dawn upon the world ; but the cordage 
of his ship, and the lines of a mathematical prob- 
lem, equally presented labyrinths he had never 
threaded. 

It was perhaps fortunate for the safety of all in 
her, that La Belle Fontange possessed an inferior 
officer, in the person of a native of Boulogne-sur- 
Mer, who was quite competent to see that she kept 
the proper course, and that she displayed none 
of the top-gallants of her pride at unprop itious 
moments. The ship itself was sufficiently and 
finely moulded, of a light and airy rig, and of 
established reputation for speed. If it was defec- 
tive in any thing, it had the fault, in common 
with its commander, of a want of sufficient solidi- 
ty to resist the vicissitudes and dangers of the 
turbulent element on which it was destined to 
act. 

The vessels were now within a mile of each 
other. The breeze was steady, and sufficiently 
fresh for all the ordinary evolutions of a naval 
combat; while the water was just quiet enough 
to permit the ships to be handled with confidence 
and accuracy. La Fontange was running with 
her head to the eastward, and, as she had the ad- 
vantage of the wind, her tall tracery of spars 
leaned gently in the direction of her adversary. 
The Coquette was standing on the other tack 
and necessarily inclined from her enemy. Both 
vessels were stripped to their topsails, spankers, 
and jibs, though the lofty sails of the Frenchman 
were fluttering in the breeze, like the graceful 
folds of some fanciful drapery. No human being 
was distinctly visible in either fabric, though dark 
clusters around each mast-head showed that the 
ready topmen were prepared to discharge their 
duties, even in the confusion and dangers of the 
impending contest. Once or twice, La Fontange in- 
clined her head more in the direction of her adver- 
sary ; then, sweeping up again to the wind, she stood 
on in stately beauty. The moment was near when 
the ships were about to cross each other, at a point 
where a musket would readily send its messenger 
across the water that lay between them. Ludlow, 


who closely watched each change of position, and 
every rise and fall of the breeze, went on the poop, 
and swept the horizon with his glass, for the last 
time before his ship should be enveloped in smoke, 
To his surprise, he discovered a pyramid of can- 
vas rising above the sea, in the direction of the 
wind. The sail was clearly visible to the naked 
eye, and had only escaped earlier observation in 
the duties of so urgent a moment. Calling the 
master to his side, he inquired his opinion con- 
cerning the character of the second stranger. 
But Trysail confessed it exceeded even his long- 
tried powers of observation, to say more than 
that it was a ship running before the wind, with 
a cloud of sail spread. After a second and a 
longer look, however, the experienced master ven- 
tured to add that the stranger had the squareness 
and symmetry of a cruiser, but of what size he 
would not yet presume to declare. 

“ It may be a light ship, under her top-gallant 
and studding sails, or it may be that we see Only 
the lofty duck of some heavier vessel, Captain 
Ludlow — ha! he has caught the eye of the 
Frenchman, for the corvette has signals abroad ! ” 

“ To your glass ! — If the stranger answer, we 
have no choice but our speed.” 

There was another keen and anxious examina- 
tion of the upper spars of the distant ship, but 
the direction of the wind prevented any signs of 
her communicating with the corvette from being 
visible. La Fontange appeared equally uncertain 
of the character of the stranger, and for a mo- 
ment there was some evidence of an intention to 
change her course. But the moment for indeci- 
sion had passed. The ships were already sweep- 
ing up abreast of each other, under the constant 
pressure of the breeze. 

“ Be ready, men ! ” said Ludlow, in a low but 
firm voice, retaining his elevated post on the 
poop, while he motioned to his companion to re- 
turn to the main deck. “ Fire at his flash ! ” 

Intense expectation succeeded. The two 
graceful fabrics sailed steadily on, and came with- 
in hail. So profound was the stillness in the Co- 
quette, that the rushing sound of the water she 
heaped under her bows was distinctly audible to 
all on board, and might be likened to the deep 
breathing of some vast animal, that was collecting 
its physical energies for some unusual exertion. 
On the other hand, tongues were loud and clam- 
orous among the cordage of La Fontange. Just as 
the ships were fairly abeam, the voice of young 
Dumont was heard, shouting through a trumpet 
for his men to fire. Ludlow smiled, in a sea- 
man’s scorn. Raising his own trumpet, with a 
quiet gesture to his attentive and ready crew, the 


A NAVAL ENGAGEMENT. 


whole discharge of their artillery broke out of 
the dark side of the ship, as if it had been by the 
volition of the fabric. The answering broadside 
was received almost as soon as their own had 
been given, and the two vessels passed swiftly 
without the line of shot. 

The wind had sent back their own smoke up- 
on the English, and, for a time, it floated on their 
decks, wreathed itself in the eddies of the sails, 
and passed away to leeward, with the breeze that 
succeeded to the counter-current of the explo- 
sions. The whistling of shot and the crash of 
wood had been heard amid the din of the com- 
bat. Giving a glance at his enemy, who still 
stood on, Ludlow leaned from the poop, and, 
with a sailor’s anxiety, he endeavored to scan the 
gear aloft. 

“ What is gone, sir ? ” he asked of Trysail, 
whose earnest face just then became visible 
through the drifting smoke. “What sail is so 
heavily flapping ? ” 

“Little harm done, sir — little harm. — Bear a 
hand with the tackle on that fore-yard-arm, you 
lubbers ! you move like snails in a minuet ! The 
fellow has shot away the lee foretop-sail-sheet, 
sir ; but we shall soon get our wings spread again. 
Lash it down, boys, as if it were butt-bolted— so ; 
steady out your bow-line, forward. Meet her, you 
can ; meet her, you may — meet her ! ” 

The smoke had disappeared, and the eye of 
the captain rapidly scanned the whole of his ship. 
Three or four topmen had already caught the 
flapping canvas, and were seated on the extremity 
of the fore-yard, busied in securing their prize. 
A hole or two was visible in the other sails, and 
here and there an unimportant rope was dangling 
in a manner to show that it had been cut by shot. 
Further than this, the damage aloft was not of a 
nature to attract his attention. 

There was a different scene on deck. The 
feeble crew were earnestly occupied in loading 
the guns, and rammers and sponges were han- 
dled with all the intenseness which men would 
manifest in a moment so exciting. The alderman 
was never more absorbed in his ledger than he 
now appeared in his duty of a cannoneer ; and 
the youths, to whom the command of the bat- 
teries had necessarily been confided, diligently 
aided him with their greater authority and experi- 
ence. Trysail stood near the capstan, coolly giv- 
ing the orders which have been related, and gazing 
upward with an interest so absorbed as to render 
him unconscious of all that passed around his 
person. Ludlow saw, with pain, that blood dis- 
colored the deck at his feet, and that a seaman lay 
dead within reach of his arm. The rent plank 


157 

and shattered ceiling showed the spot where the 
destructive missile had entered. 

Compressing his lips like a man resolved, the 
commander of the Coquette bent farther forward 
and glanced at the wheel. The quartermaster 
who held the spokes, was erect, steady, and kept 
his eye on the leach of the head-sail, as unerring- 
ly as the needle points to the pole. 

These were the observations of a single min- 
ute. The different circumstances related had 
been ascertained with so many rapid glances of 
the eye, and they had even been noted without 
losing for a moment the knowledge of the pre- 
cise situation of La Fontange. The latter was al- 
ready in stays. It became necessary to meet the 
evolution by another as prompt. 

The order was no sooner given, than the Co- 
quette, as if conscious of the hazard she ran of 
being raked, whirled away from the wind, and, by 
the time her adversary was ready to deliver her 
other broadside, she was in a position to receive 
and to return it. Again the ships approached 
each other, and once more they exchanged their 
streams of fire when abeam. 

Ludlow now saw, through the smoke, the 
ponderous yard of La Fontange swinging heavily 
against the breeze, and the main-topsail come 
flapping against her mast. Swinging off from the 
poop by a backstay that had been shot away a 
moment before, he alighted on the quarter-deck 
by the side of the master. 

“ Touch all the braces ! ” he said, hastily, but 
still speaking low and clearly ; “ give a drag upon 
the bowlines— luff, sir, luff; jam the ship up hard 
against the wind ! ” 

The clear, steady answer of the quartermas- 
ter, and the manner in which the Coquette, still 
vomiting her sheets of flame, inclined toward the 
breeze, announced the promptitude of the subor- 
dinates. In another minute, the vast volumes of 
smoke which enveloped the two ships joined, and 
formed one white and troubled cloud, which was 
rolling swiftly before the explosions, over the sur- 
face of the sea, but which, as it rose higher in the 
air, sailed gracefully to leeward. 

Our young commander passed swiftly through 
the batteries, spoke encouragingly to his people, 
and resumed his post on the poop. The station- 
ary position of La Fontange, and his own efforts 
to get to windward, were already proving advan- 
tageous to Queen Anne’s cruiser. There was 
some indecision on the part of the other ship, 
which instantly caught the eye of one whose 
readiness in his profession so much resembled in- 
stinct. 

The Chevalier Dumont had amused his leisure 


158 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


by running his eyes over the records of the naval 
history of his country, where he had found this 
and that commander applauded for throwing their 
topsails to the mast, abreast of their enemies. 
Ignorant of the difference between a ship in line 
and one engaged singly, he had determined to 
prove himself equal to a similar display of spirit. 
At the moment when Ludlow was standing alone 
on the poop, watching with vigilant eyes the 
progress of his own vessel, and the position of 
his enemy, indicating merely by a look or a gesture, 
to the attentive Trysail beneath, what he wished 
done, there was actually a wordy discussion on 
the quarter-deck of the latter, between the mari- 
ner of Boulogne-sur-Mer and the gay favorite of 
the salons. They debated on the expediency of 
the step which the latter had taken, to prove the 
existence of a quality that no one doubted. The 
time lost in this difference of opinion was of the 
last importance to the British cruiser. Standing 
gallantly on, she was soon out of the range of 
her adversary’s fire ; and, before the Boulognois 
had succeeded in convincing his superior of his 
error, their antagonist was on the other tack, and 
luffing across the wake of La Fontange. The 
topsail was then tardily filled, but, before the lat- 
ter ship had recovered her motion, the sails of 
her enemy overshadowed her deck. There was 
now every prospect of the Coquette passing to 
windward. At that critical moment, the fair- 
setting topsail of the British cruiser was nearly 
rent in two by a shot. The ship fell off, the 
yards interlocked, and the vessels were foul. 

The Coquette had all the advantage of posi- 
tion. Perceiving the important fact at a glance, 
Ludlow made sure of its continuance by throw- 
ing his grapnels. When the two ships were 
thus firmly lashed together, the young Dumont 
found himself relieved from a mountain of em- 
barrassment. Sufficiently justified by the fact 
that not a single gun of his own would bear, 
while a murderous discharge of grape had just 
swept along his decks, he issued the order to 
board. But Ludlow, with his weakened crew, 
had not decided on so hazardous an evolution as 
that which brought him in absolute contact with 
his enemy, without foreseeing the means of avoid- 
ing all the consequences. The vessels touched 
each other only at one point, and this spot was 
protected by a row of muskets. No sooner, 
therefore, did the impetuous young Frenchman 
appear on the taffrail of his own ship, supported 
by a band of followers, than a close and deadly 
fire swept them away to a man. Young Dumont 
alone remained. For a single moment, his eye 
glared wildly ; but the active frame, still obedient 


to the governing impulse of so impetuous a spir- 
it, leaped onward. He fell, without life, on the 
deck of his enemy. 

Ludlow watched every movement, with a 
calmness that neither personal responsibility, nor 
the uproar and rapid incidents of the terrible 
scene, could discompose. 

“ Now is our time to bring the matter hand 
to hand ! ” he cried, making a gesture to Trysail 
to descend from the ladder, in order that he 
might pass. 

His arm was arrested, and the grave old mas- 
ter pointed to' windward. 

“ There is no mistaking the cut of those 
sails, or the lofty rise of those spars ! The 
stranger is another Frenchman ! ” - 

One glance told Ludlow that his subordinate 
was right; another sufficed to show what was 
necessary. 

“ Cast loose the forward grapnel — cut it — 
away with it, clear ! ” was shouted, through his 
trumpet, in a voice that rose commanding and 
clear amid the roar of the combat. 

Released forward, the stem of the Coquette 
yielded to the pressure of her enemy, whose sails 
were all drawing, and she was soon in a position 
to enable her head-yards to be braced sharp 
aback, in a direction opposite to the one in which 
she had so lately lain. The whole broadside was 
then delivered into the stern of La Fontange, the 
last grapnel was released, and the ships sepa- 
rated. 

The single spirit which presided over the | 
evolutions and exertions of the Coquette still 
governed her movements. The sails were ! 
trimmed, the ship was got in command, and, be- I 
fore the vessels had been asunder five minutes, 
the duty of the vessel was in its ordinary active 
but noiseless train. 

Nimble topmen were on the yards, and broad 
folds of fresh canvas were flapping in the breeze, 
as the new sails were bent and set. Ropes were 
spliced, or supplied by new rigging, the spars 
examined, and, in fine, all that watchfulness and 
sedulous care were observed which are necessary 
to the efficiency and safety of a ship. Every 
spar was secured, the pumps were sounded, and 
the vessel held on her way, as steadily as if she 
had never fired nor received a shot. 

On the other hand, La Fontange betrayed the 
indecision and confusion of a worsted ship. Her 
torn canvas was blowing about in disorder, many 
important ropes beat against her masts unheeded, 
and the vessel itself drove before the breeze in 
the helplessness of a wreck. For several minutes 
there seemed no controlling mind in the fabric ; 


APPEARANCE OF A STRANGER. 


159 


and when, after so much distance was lost as to 
give her enemy all the advantage of the wind, a 
tardy attempt was made to bring the ship up 
again, the tallest and most important of her 
masts was seen tottering, until it finally fell, with 
all its hamper, into the sea. 

Notwithstanding the absence of so many of 
his people, success would now have been certain 
had not the presence of the stranger compelled 
Ludlow to abandon his advantage. But the con- 
sequences to his own vessel were too sure to al- 
low of more than a natural and manly regret 
that so favorable an occasion should escape him. 
The character of the stranger could no longer be 
mistaken. The eye of every seaman in the Co- 
quette as well understood the country of the 
high and narrow - headed sails, the tall taper 
masts and short yards of the frigate whose hull 
was now distinctly visible, as a landsman recog- 
nizes an individual by the distinguishing marks 
of his features or attire. Had there been any 
lingering doubts on the subject, they would have 
all given place to certainty, when the stranger 
was seen exchanging signals with the crippled 
corvette. 

It was now time for Ludlow to come to a 
speedy determination on his future course. The 
breeze still held to the southward, but it was be- 
ginning to lessen, with every appearance that it 
would fail before nightfall. The land lay a few 
leagues to the northward, and the whole horizon 
of the ocean, with the exception of the two 
French cruisers, was clear. Descending to the 
quarter-deck, he approached the master, who 
was seated in a chair, while the surgeon dressed 
a severe hurt in one of his legs. Shaking the 
sturdy veteran cordially by the hand, he expressed 
his acknowledgments for his support in a mo- 
ment so trying. 

“ God bless you ! God bless you ! Captain 
Ludlow,” returned the old sailor, dashing his 
hand equivocally across his weather-beaten brow. 
“ Battle is certainly the place to try both ship 
and friends ; and, Heaven be praised ! Queen 
Anne has not failed of either this day. No man 
has forgotten his duty, so far , as my eyes have 
witnessed ; and this is saying no trifle, with half 
a crew and an equal enemy. As for the ship, 
she never behaved better ! I had my misgivings 
when I saw the new main-topsail go, which it 
did, as all here know, like a bit of rent muslin 
between the fingers of a seamstress. — Run for- 
ward, Mr. Hopper, and tell the men in the fore 
rigging to take another drag on that swifter, and 
to be careful and bring the strain equal on all 
the shrouds. — A lively youth, Captain Ludlow, 


and one who only wants a little reflection, with 
some more experience, and a small dash of mod- 
esty, together with the seamanship he will natu- 
rally get in time, to make a very tolerable offi- 
cer.” 

“ The boy promises well ; but I have come to 
ask thy advice, my old friend, concerning our 
next movements. There is no doubt that the 
fellow who is coining down upon us is both a 
Frenchman and a frigate.” 

“ A man might as well doubt the nature of a 
fish-hawk which is to pick up all the small fry, 
and to let the big ones go. We might show him 
our canvas and try the open sea, but I fear that 
foremast is too weak, with three such holes in 
it, to bear the sail we should need ! ” 

“ What think you of the wind ? ” said Ludlow, 
affecting an indecision he did not feel, in order to 
soothe the feelings of his wounded companion. 
“ Should it hold, we might double Montauk, and 
return for the rest of our people ; but should it 
fail, is there no danger that the frigate should 
tow within shot ? — We have no boats to escape 
her.” 

“ The soundings on this coast are as regular 
as the roof of an out-house,” said the master, af- 
ter a moment of thought, “ and it is my advice, 
if it is your pleasure to ask it, Captain Ludlow, 
that we shoal our water as much as possible while 
the wind lasts. Then I think we shall be safe 
from a very near visit from the big one ; as for 
the corvette, I am of opinion that, like a man 
who has eaten his dinner, she has no stomach for 
another slice.” 

Ludlow applauded the advice of his subordi- 
nate, for it was precisely what he had determined 
on doing ; and, after again complimenting him on 
his coolness and skill, he issued the necessary 
orders. The helm of the Coquette was now placed 
hard a-weather, the yards were squared, and the 
ship was put before the wind. After running in 
this direction for a few hours, the wind gradually 
lessening, the lead announced that the keel was 
quite as near the bottom as the time of the tide, 
and the dull heaving and setting of the element, 
rendered at all prudent. The breeze soon after 
fell, and our young commander ordered an anchor 
to be dropped into the sea. 

His example in the latter respect was imitated 
by the hostile cruisers. They had joined, and 
boats were seen passing from one to the other, 
so long as there was light. When the sun fell be- 
hind the western margin of the ocean, their dusky 
outlines, distant about a league, gradually grew 
less and less distinct, until the darkness of night 
enveloped sea and land in its gloom. 


160 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“Now; the business.” 

Othello. 

Three hours later, and every noise was hushed 
on hoard the royal cruiser. The toil of repairing 
damages had ceased ; and most of the living, with 
the dead, lay alike in common silence. The 
watchfulness necessary to the situation of the 
fatigued mariners, however, was not forgotten; 
and, though so many slept, a few eyes were still 
open, affecting to be alert. Here and there some 
drowsy seaman paced the deck, or a solitary 
young officer endeavored to keep himself awake 
by humming a low air in his narrow bounds. 
The mass of the crew slept heavily with pistols 
in their belts and cutlasses at their sides, between 
the guns. There was one figure extended upon 
the quarter-deck, with the head resting on a shot- 
box. The deep breathing of this person denoted 
the unquiet slumbers of a powerful frame, in 
which weariness contended with suffering. It 
was the wounded and feverish master, who had 
placed himself in that position to catch an hour 
of the repose that was necessary to his situation. 
On an arm-chest which had been emptied of its 
contents, lay another but a motionless human 
form, with the limbs composed in decent order, 
and with the face turned toward the melancholy 
stars. This was the body of the young Dumont, 
which had been kept with the intention of con- 
signing it to consecrated earth, when the ship 
should return to port. Ludlow, with the delicacy 
of a generous and chivalrous enemy, had with his 
own hands spread the stainless ensign of his 
country over the remains of the inexperienced 
but gallant young Frenchman. 

There was one little group on the raised deck 
in the stern of the vessel, in which the ordinary 
interests of life still seemed to exercise their in- 
fluence. Hither Ludlow had led Alida and her 
companions, after the duties of the day were over, 
in order that they might breathe an air fresher 
than that of the interior of the vessel. The ne- 
gress nodded near her young mistress ; the tired 
alderman sat with his back supported against 
the mizzen-mast, giving audible evidence of his 
situation ; and Ludlow stood erect, occasionally 
throwing an earnest look on the surrounding and 
unruffled waters, then lending his attention to the 
discourse of his companions. Alida and Seadrift 
were seated near each other, on chairs. The con- 
versation was low, while the melancholy and the 
tremor in the voice of la belle' Barb erie denoted 
how much the events of the day had shaken her 
usually firm and spirited mind. 


“ There is a mingling of the terrific and the 
beautiful, of the grand and the seducing, in this 
unquiet profession of yours ! ” observed, or rather 
continued Alida, replying to a previous remark 
of the young sailor. “That tranquil sea — the 
hollow sound of the surf on the shore — and this 
soft canopy above us, form objects on which even 
a girl might dwell in admiration, were not her 
ears still ringing with the roar and cries of the 
combat. Did you say the commander of the 
Frenchman was but a youth ? ” 

“A mere boy in appearance, and one who 
doubtless owed his rank to the advantages of birth 
and family. We know it to be the captain by 
his dress, no less than by the desperate effort he 
made to recover the false step taken in the earlier 
part of the action.” 

“ Perhaps he has a mother, Ludlow ! — a sister 
— a wife — or — ” , 

Alida paused, for with maiden diffidence she 
hesitated to pronounce the tie which was upper- 
most in her thoughts. 

“ He may have had one or all ! Such are the 
sailor’s hazards, and — ” 

“ Such the hazards of those who feel an inter- 
est in their safety ! ” uttered the low but expres- 
sive voice of Seadrift. 

An eloquent silence succeeded. Then the 
voice of Myndert was heard muttering indistinct- 
ly “ Twenty of beaver, and three of marten — as 
per invoice.” The smile which, spite of the 
train of his thoughts, rose on the lips of Ludlow, 
had scarcely passed away, when the hoarse tones 
of Trysail, rendered still hoarser by his sleep, 
were plainly heard in a stifled cry, saying, “ Bear 
a hand there with your stoppers ! — the Frenchman 
is coming round upon us again.” 

“ That is prophetic ! ” said one, aloud, behind 
the listening group. Ludlow turned, quick as the 
flag fluttering on its vane, and through the dark- 
ness he recognized in the motionless but manly 
form that stood near him on the poop, the fine 
person of the “ Skimmer of the Seas.” 

“ Call away — ” 

“Call none!” interrupted Tiller, stopping 
the hurried order which involuntarily broke 
from the lips of Ludlow. “ Let thy ship feign 
the silence of a wreck, but in truth let there 
be watchfulness and preparation even to her 
store-rooms ! You have done well, Captain Lud- 
low, to be on the alert, though I have known 
sharper eyes than those of some of your look- 
outs.” 

“ Whence come you, audacious man, and 
what mad errand has brought you again on the 
deck of my ship ? ” 


THE SKIMMER’S CAUTION. 


161 


“ I come from my habitation on the sea. My 
business here is warning ! ” 

“ The sea ! ” echoed Ludlow, gazing about him 
at the narrow and empty view. “ The hour for 
mockery is past, and you would do well to trifle 
no more with those who have serious duties to 
discharge.” 

“ The hour is indeed one for serious duties — 
duties more serious than any you apprehend. 
But,, before I enter on explanation, there must be 
conditions between us. You have one of the 
sea-green lady’s servitors here ; I claim his liberty 
for my secret.” 

“ The error into which I had fallen exists no 
longer,” returned Ludlow, looking for an instant 
toward the shrinking form of Seadrift. “ My 
conquest is worthless, unless you come to supply 
his place.” 

“ I come for other purposes — here is one who 
knows I do not trifle when urgent affairs are on 
hand. Let thy companions retire, that I may 
speak openly.” 

Ludlow hesitated, for he had not yet recovered 
from the surprise of finding the redoubtable free- 
trader so unexpectedly on the deck of his ship. 
But Alida and her companion arose, like those 
who had more confidence in their visitor, and, 
[arousing the negress from her sleep, they de- 
scended the ladder and entered the cabin. When 
Ludlow found himself alone with Tiller, he de- 
manded an explanation. 

“ It shall not be withheld, for time presses, 
and that which is to be done must be done with a 
seaman’s care and coolness,” returned the other. 
“You have had a close brush with one of Louis’s 
rovers, Captain Ludlow, and prettily was the 
ship of Queen Anne handled ! Have your people 
suffered and are you still strong enough to make 
good a defence worthy of your conduct this 
morning ? ” 

“ These are facts you would have me utter to 
the ear of one who may be false — even a spy ! ” 

“ Captain Ludlow — but circumstances warrant 
thy suspicions ! ” 

“ One whose vessel and life I have threatened 
— an outlaw ! ” 

“ This is too true,” returned the “ Skimmer 
of the Seas,” suppressing the sudden impulse of 
pride and resentment. “I am threatened and 
pursued — I am a smuggler and an outlaw : still 
am I human ! You see that dusky object which 
borders the sea to the northward ? ” 

“ It is too plainly land to be mistaken.” 

“ Land, and the land of my birth ! — the ear- 
liest, perhaps I may say the happiest of my days, 
were passed on that long and narrow island.” 

11 


“ Had I known it earlier, there would have 
been a closer look among its bays and inlets.” 

“ The search might have been rewarded. A 
cannon would easily throw its shot from this 
deck to the spot where my brigantine now lies, 
snug at single anchor.” 

“ Unless you have swept her near since the 
setting of the sun, that is impossible ! When the 
night drew on, nothing was in view but the frig- 
ate and corvette of the enemy.” 

“We have not stirred a fathom; yet, true as 
the word of a fearless man, there lies the vessel 
of the sea-green lady. You see the place where 
the beach falls — here, at the nearest point of the 
land — the island is nearly severed by the water 
at that spot, and the Water-Witch is safe in the 
depths of the bay which enters from the north- 
ward. There is not a mile between us. From 
the eastern hill, I witnessed your spirit this day, 
Captain Ludlow, and though condemned in per- 
son, I felt that the heart could never be outlawed. 
There is a fealty here, that can survive even the 
persecutions of the custom-houses ! ” 

“You are happy in your terms, sir. I will 
not conceal that I think a seaman, even as skil- 
ful as yourself, must allow that the Coquette was 
kept prettily in command.” 

“ No pilot-boat could have been more sure or 
more lively. I knew your weakness, for the ab- 
sence of all your boats was no secret to me ; and 
I confess I could have spared some of the profits 
of the voyage, to have been on your decks this 
day with a dozen of my truest fellows ! ” 

“ A man who can feel this loyalty to the flag, 
should find a more honorable occupation for his 
usual life.” 

“A country that can inspire it, should be cau- 
tious not to estrange the affections of its children 
by monopolies and injustice. But these are dis- 
cussions unsuited to the moment. I am doubly 
your countryman in this strait, and all the past is 
no more than the rough liberties which friends 
take with each other. Captain Ludlow, there is 
danger brooding in that dark void which lies to 
seaward ! ” 

“On what authority do you speak thus ? ” 

“Sight. — I have been among your enemies, 
and have seen their deadly preparations. I know 
the caution is given to a brave man, and nothing 
shall be extenuated. You have need of all your 
resolution and of every arm — for they will be up- 
on you in overwhelming numbers ! ” 

“ True or false, thy warning shall not be neg- 
lected.” 

“ Hold ! ” said the Skimmer, arresting a for- 
ward movement of his companion, with his hand. 


162 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


“ Let them sleep to the last moment. You have 
yet an hour, and rest will renew their strength. 
You may trust the experience of a seaman who 
has passed half of the life of man on the ocean, 
and who has witnessed all its most stirring 
scenes, from the conflict of the elements to every 
variety of strife that man has invented to destroy 
his fellows. For another hour, you will be secure. 
After that hour, God protect the unprepared ! and 
God be merciful to him whose minutes are num- 
bered ! ” 

“ Thy language and manner are those of one 
who deals honestly,” returned Ludlow, struck 
by the apparent sincerity of the free-trader’s 
communication. “ In every event, we shall 
be ready, though the manner of your having 
gained this knowledge is as great a mys- 
tery as your appearance on the deck of my 
ship.” 

“Both can be explained,” returned the Skim- 
mer, motioning to his companion to follow to the 
taffrail. Here he pointed to a small and nearly 
imperceptible skiff, which floated at the bottom 
of a stern-ladder, and continued : “ One who so 
often pays secret visits to the land, can never be 
in want of the means. This nut-shell was easily 
transported across the narrow slip of land that 
separates the bay from the ocean ; and, though 
the surf moans so hoarsely, it is easily passed by 
a steady and dexterous oarsman. I have been 
under the martingale of the Frenchman, and you 
see that I am here. If your lookouts are less 
alert than usual, you will remember that a low 
gunwale, a dusky side, and a muffled oar, are not 
readily detected, when the eye is heavy and the 
body wearied. I must now quit you — unless you 
think it more prudent to send those who can be 
of no service out of the ship before the trial shall 
come ?” 

Ludlow hesitated. A strong desire to put 
Alida in a place of safety was met by his distrust 
of the smuggler’s faith. He reflected a moment 
ere he answered. 

“ Your cockle-shell is not sufficiently secure 
for more than its owner. Go, and as you prove 
loyal, may you prosper ! ” 

“ Abide the blow ! ” said the Skimmer, grasp- 
ind his hand. He then stepped carelessly on the 
dangling ropes, and descended into the boat be- 
neath. Ludlow watched his movements with an 
intense and possibly with a distrustful curiosity. 
When seated at the sculls, the person of the free- 
trader was nearly indistinct; and, as the boat* 
glided noiselessly away, the young commander no 
longer felt disposed to censure those who had 
permitted its approach without a warning. In 


less than a minute the dusky object was con- 
founded with the surface of the sea. 

Left to himself, the young commander of the 
Coquette seriously reflected on what had passed. 
The manner of the Skimmer, the voluntary char- 
acter of his communication, its probability and the 
means by which the knowledge had been obtained, 
united to confirm his truth. Instances of similar 
attachment to their flag, in seamen whose ordi- 
nary pursuits were opposed to its interests, were 
not uncommon. Their misdeeds resemble the 
errors of passion and temptation, while the mo- 
mentary return to better things is the inextin- 
guishable impulse of nature. 

The admonition of the free-trader, who had en- 
joined the captain to allow his people to sleep, 
was remembered. Twenty times, within as many 
minutes, did our young sailor examine his watch 
to note the tardy passage of the time ; as often 
did he return it to his pocket with a determina- 
tion to forbear. At length he descended to the j 
quarter-deck, and drew near the only form that 1 
was erect. The watch was commanded by a 
youth of sixteen, whose regular period of proba- 
tionary service had not passed, but who, in the 
absence of his superiors, was intrusted with this 
delicate and important duty. He stood leaning 
against the capstan, one hand supporting his 
cheek, while the elbow rested against the drum, 
and the body was without motion. Ludlow re- 
garded him a moment ; then lifting a lighted bat- 
tle-lantern to his face, he saw that he slept. 
Without disturbing the delinquent, the captain 
replaced the lantern and passed forward. In the 
gangway there stood a marine, with his musket 
shouldered, in an attitude of attention. As Lud- 
low brushed within a few inches of his eyes, it was 
easy to be se$n that they opened and shut invol- ! 
untarily, and without consciousness of what lay 
before them. On the top-gallant-forecastle was 
a short, square, and well-balanced figure, that 
stood without support of any kind, with both 
arms thrust into the bosom of a jacket, and a 
head that turned slowly to the west and south, 
as if it were examining the ocean in those direc- 
tions. 

Stepping lightly up the ladder, Ludlow saw 
that it was the veteran seaman who was rated as 
the captain of the forecastle. 

“ I am glad, at last, to find one pair of eyes 
open in my ship,” said the captain. “ Of the 
whole watch, you alone are alert.” 

“ I have doubled cape fifty, your honor, and 
the seaman who has made that voyage rarely 
wants the second call of the boatswain. Young 
heads have young eyes, and sleep is next to 


A NIGHT ATTACK. 


food, after a heavy drag at gun-tackles and lan- 
yards.” 

“ What draws your attention so steadily in 
that quarter ? There is nothing visible but the 
haze of the sea.” 

“ ’Tis the direction of the Frenchman, sir — 
does your honor hear nothing ? ” 

“ Nothing,” said Ludlow, after intently listen- 
ing for half a minute. “ Nothing, unless it be 
the wash of the surf on the beach.” 

“ It may be only fancy, but there came a 
sound like the fall of an oar-blade on a thwart, 
and ’tis but natural, your honor, to expect the 
mounsheer will be out, in this smooth water, to 
see what has become of us. — There went the flash 
of a -light, or my name is not Bob Cleet ! ” 

Ludlow was silent. A light was certainly 
visible in the quarter where the enemy was known 
to be anchored, and it came and disappeared like 
a moving lantern, At length it was seen to de- 
scend slowly, and vanish as if it were extinguished 
in the water. 

“ That lantern went into a boat, Captain'Lud- 
low, though a lubber carried it ! ” said the posi- 
tive old forecastle-man, shaking his head, and be- 
ginning to pace across the deck with the air of 
a man who needed no further confirmation of his 
suspicions. 

Ludlow returned toward the quarter-deck, 
thoughtful but calm. He passed among his 
sleeping crew without awaking a man, even 
! forbearing to touch the still motionless midship- 
man, and he entered his cabin without speak- 
ing. 

The commander of the Coquette was absent 
but a few minutes. When he again appeared on 
deck, there was more of decision and of prepara- 
tion in his manner. 

“ ’Tis time to call the watch, Mr. Reef,” he 
whispered at the elbow of the drowsy officer of 
the deck, without betraying his consciousness of 
the youth’s forgetfulness of duty. “ The glass is 
out.” 

“Ay, ay, sir. — Bear a hand, and turn the 
glass ! ” muttered the young man. “ A fine night, 
sir, and very smooth water. — I was just thinking 
of—” 

“ Home and thy mother ! ’Tis the way with 
us all in youth. Well, we have now something 
else to occupy the thoughts. Muster all the gen- 
tlemen, here, on the quarter-deck, sir.” 

When the half-sleeping midshipman quitted 
his captain to obey this order, the latter drew 
near the spot where Trysail still lay in an unquiet 
sleep. A light touch of a single finger was suffi- 
cient to raise the master on his feet. The first 


163 

look of the veteran tar was aloft, the second at 
the heavens, the last at his captain. 

“ I fear thy wound stiffens, and that the night 
air has added to the pain ? ” observed the latter, 
speaking in a kind and considerate tone. 

“ The wounded spar cannot be trusted like a 
sound stick, Captain Ludlow; but as I am no 
foot-soldier on a march, the duty of the ship 
may go on without my calling for a horse.” 

“ I rejoice in thy cheerful spirit, my old friend, 
for here is serious work likely to fall upon our 
hands. The Frenchmen are in their boats, and 
we shall shortly be brought to close quarters, or 
prognostics are false.” 

“ Boats ! ” repeated the master. “ I had rather 
it were under our canvas with a stiff breeze! 
The play of this ship is a lively foot, and a touch- 
ing leach ; but when it comes to boats, a marine 
is nearly as good a man as. a quartermaster ! ” 

“We must take fortune as it offers. — Here is 
our council ! — It is composed of young heads, but 
of hearts that might do credit to gray hairs.” 

Ludlow joined the little group of officers that 
was by this time assembled near the capstan. 
Here, in a few words, he explained the reason 
why he had summoned them from their sleep. 
When each of the youths understood his orders, 
and the nature of the new danger that threatened 
the ship, they separated, and began to enter with 
activity, but in guarded silence, on the necessary 
preparations. The sound of footsteps awoke a 
dozen of the older seamen, who immediately joined 
their officers. 

Half an hour passed like a moment, in such an 
occupation. At the end of that time, Ludlow 
deemed his ship ready. The two forward guns 
had been run in, and the shot having been drawn, 
their places were supplied with double charges of 
grape and canister. Several swivels, a species of 
armament much used in that age, were loaded to 
the muzzles, and placed in situations to rake the 
deck, while the foretop was plentifully stored with 
arms and ammunition. The matches were pre- 
pared, and the whole of the crew was mustered, by a 
particular call of each man. Five minutes sufficed 
to issue the necessary orders, and to see each post 
occupied. After this, the low hum ceased in the 
ship, and the silence again became so deep and gen- 
eral that the wash of the receding surf was nearly 
as audible as the plunge of the wave on the sands. 

Ludlow stood on the forecastle, accompanied 
by the master. Here he lent all his senses to the 
appearance of the elements and to the signs of 
the moment. Wind there was none ; though oc- 
casionally a breath of hot air came from the land, 
like the first efforts of the night-breeze. The 


164 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


heavens were clouded, though a few thoughtful 
stars glimmered between the masses of vapor. 

“A calmer night never shut in the Ameri- 
cas ! ” said the veteran Trysail, shaking his head 
doubtingly and speaking in a cautious tone. “I 
am one of those, Captain Ludlow, who think more 
than half the virtue is out of a ship when her an- 
chor is down ! ” 

“ With a weakened crew, it may be better for 
us that the people have no yards to handle nor 
any bowlines to steady. All our care can be given 
to defence.” 

“ This is much like telling the hawk he can 
fight the better with a clipped wing, since he has 
not the trouble of flying ! The nature of a ship is 
motion, and the merit of a seaman is judicious 
and lively handling ; but of what use is complain- 
ing, since it will neither lift an anchor nor fill a 
sail! What is your opinion, Captain Ludlow, 
concerning an after-life, and of all those matters 
one occasionally hears of if he happens to drift in 
the way of a church ? ” 

“ The question is broad as the ocean, my good 
friend, and a fitting answer might lead us into ab- 
strusities deeper than any problem in our trigo- 
nometry. — Was that the stroke of an oar? ” 
“’Twas a land-noise. Well, I am no great 
navigator among the crooked channels of religion. 
Every new argument is a sand-bar, or a shoal, 
that obliges me to tack and stand off again ; else 
I might have been a bishop for any thing the 
world knows to the contrary. ’Tis a gloomy 
night, Captain Ludlow, and one that is sparing of 
its stars. I never knew luck come of an expedi- 
tion on which a natural light did not fall ! ” 

“ So much the worse for those who seek to 
harm us. — I surely heard an oar in the rowlock ! ” 
“It came from the shore, and had the sound 
of the land about it,” quietly returned the master, 
who still kept his look riveted on the heavens. 
“ This world in which we live, Captain Ludlow, 
is one of extraordinary uses ; but that, to which 
we are steering, is still more unaccountable. 
They say that worlds are sailing above us like 
ships in a clear sea ; and there are people who 
believe that, when we take our departure from 
this planet, we are only bound to another, in 
which we are to be rated according to our own 
deeds here ; which is much the same as being 
drafted for a new ship with a certificate of service 
in one’s pocket.” 

“ The resemblance is perfect,” returned the 
other, leaning far over a timber-head to catch 
the smallest sound that might come from the 
ocean. — “ That was no more than the blowing of 
a porpoise ! ” 


“ It was strong enough for the puff of a whale. 
There is no scarcity of big fish on the coast of 
this island, and bold harpooners are the men 
who are scattered about on the sandy downs, 
here-away, to the northward. I once sailed with 
an officer who knew the name of every star in 
the heavens, and often have I passed hours in 
listening to his history of their magnitude and 
character, during the middle watches. It was 
his opinion that there is but one navigator for all 
the rovers of the air, whether meteors, comets, 
or planets.” 

“ No doubt he must be right, having been 
there.” 

“ No, that is more than I can say for him, 
though few men have gone deeper into the high 
latitudes on both sides of our own equator, than 
he. — One surely spoke — here, in a line with yon- 
der low star ! ” 

“ Was it not & water-fowl ? ” 

“ No gull— ha ! here we have the object, just 
within the starboard jibboom-guy. There comes 
the Frenchman in his pride, and ’twill be lucky 
for him who lives to count the slain, or to boast 
of his deeds ! ” 

The master descended from the forecastle, and 
passed among the crew, with every thought re- 
called from its excursive flight to the duty of the 
moment. Ludlow continued on the forecastle 
alone. There was a low, whispering sound in the 
ship, like that which is made by the murmuring 
of a rising breeze, then all was still as death. 

The Coquette lay with her head to seaward, 
the stern necessarily pointing toward the land. 
The distance from the latter was less than a mile, 
and the direction of the ship’s hull was caused 
by the course of the heavy ground-swell, which 
incessantly rolled the waters on the wide beach 
of the island. The head-gear lay in the way of 
the dim view; and Ludlow walked out? on the 
bowsprit, in order that nothing should lie between 
him and the part of the ocean he wished to study. 
Here he had not stood a minute when he caught, 
first a confused and then a more distinct glimpse 
of a line of dark objects, advancing slowly tow- 
ard the ship. Assured of the position of his ene- 
my, he returned in-board and descended among 
his people. In another moment he was again on 
the forecastle, across which he paced leisurely, 
and, to all appearance, with the calmness of one 
who enjoyed the refreshing coolness of the night. 

At the distance of a hundred fathoms, the 
dusky line of boats paused and began to change 
its order. At that instant the first puffs of the 
land breeze were felt, and the stern of the ship 
made a gentle inclination seacard. 


CLOSE QUARTERS. 


“ Help her with the mizzen ! Let fall the top- 
sail ! ” whispered the young captain to those be- 
neath him. Ere another moment the flap of the 
loosened sail was heard. The ship swung still 
farther, and Ludlow stamped on the deck. 

A round, fiery light shot beyond the martin- 
gale, and the smoke rolled along the sea, out- 
stripped by a crowd of missiles that were hissing 
across the water. A shout, in which command 
was mingled with shrieks, followed, and oar-blades 
were heard dashing the water aside regardless of 
concealment. The ocean lighted, and three or 
four boat-guns returned the fatal discharge from 
I the ship. Ludlow had not spoken. Still alone 

i on his elevated and exposed post, he watched the 
effects of both fires with a commander’s coolness. 
I The smile that struggled about his compressed 
| mouth, when the momentary confusion among the 
i boats betrayed the success of his own attack, had 

I been wild and exulting ; but when he heard the 
rending of the plank beneath him, the heavy 
| groans that succeeded, and the rattling of lighter 
objects that were scattered by the shot as it passed 
I with lessened force along the deck of his ship, it 
1 became fierce and resentful. 

“Let them have it!” he shouted, in a clear, 

| animating voice, that assured the people of his 
presence and his care. “ Show them the humor 
of an Englishman’s sleep, my lads ! Speak to 
I them, tops and decks ! ” 

The order was obeyed. The remaining bow- 
1 gun was fired, and the discharge of all the Co- 
quette’s musketry and blunderbusses followed. 
A crowd of boats came sweeping under the bow- 
sprit of the ship at the same moment, when there 
arose the clamor and shouts of the boarders. 

The succeeding minutes were full of confusion, 
and of devoted exertion. Twice were the head 
and bowsprit of the ship filled with dark groups 
of men, whose grim visages were only visible by 
the pistol’s flash ; as often were they cleared by 
the pike and bayonet. A third effort was more 
successful, and the tread of the assailants was 
heard on the deck of the forecastle. The strug- 
gle was but momentary, though many fell, and 
the narrow arena was soon slippery with blood. 
The Boulognese mariner was foremost among his 
countrymen, and at that desperate emergency 
Ludlow and Trysail fought in the common herd. 
Numbers prevailed ; and it was fortunate for the 
commander of the Coquette, that the sudden re- 
coil of a human body that fell upon him, drove 
him from his footing to the deck beneath. 

Recovering from the fall, the young captain 
cheered his men by his voice and was answered 
by the deep-mouthed shouts which an excited 


165 

seaman is ever ready to deliver, even to the 
death. 

“ Rally in the gangways, and defy them ! ” 
was the animated cry — “ rally in the gangways, 
hearts of oak,” was returned by Trysail, in a 
ready but weakened voice. The men obeyed, and 
Ludlow saw that he could still muster a force ca- 
pable of resistance. 

Both parties for a moment paused. The fire 
of the top annoyed the boarders, and the defend- 
ants hesitated to advance. But the rush from 
both was common and a fierce encounter occurred 
at the foot of the foremast. The crowd thick- 
ened in the rear of the French, and one of their 
number no sooner fell than another filled his 
place. The English receded, and Ludlow, extri- 
cating himself from the mass, retired to the quar- 
ter-deek. 

“ Give way, men ! ” he again shouted, so clear 
and steady as to be heard above the cries and 
execrations of the fight. “ Into the wings ; down, 
between the guns — down — to your covers ! ” 

The English disappeared, as if by magic. 
Some leaped upon the ridge-ropes, others sought 
the protection of the guns, and many went through 
the hatches. At that moment Ludlow made his 
most desperate effort. Aided by the gunner, he 
applied matches to the two swivels, which had 
been placed in readiness for a last resort. The 
deck was enveloped in smoke, and, when the va- 
por lifted, the forward part of the ship was as 
clear as if man had never trodden it. All who 
had not fallen had vanished. 

A shout, and a loud hurrah, brought back 
the defendants, and Ludlow headed a charge upon 
the top-gallant-forecastle, again, in person. A few 
of the assailants showed themselves from behind 
covers on the deck, and the struggle was renewed. 
Glaring balls of fire sailed over the heads of the 
combatants and fell among the throng in the rear. 
Ludlow saw the danger, and he endeavored to 
urge his people on to regain the bow-guns, one of 
which was known to be loaded. But the explo- 
sion of a grenade on deck, and in his rear, was 
followed by a shock in the hold, that threatened 
to force the bottom out of the vessel. The 
alarmed and weakened crew began to waver ; and 
as a fresh attack of grenades was followed by a 
fierce rally, in which the assailants brought up 
fifty men in a body from their boats, Ludlow found 
himsel^compelled to retire amid the retreating 
mass of his own crew. 

The defence now assumed the character of 
hopeless but desperate resistance. The cries of 
the enemy were more and more clamorous ; and 
they succeeded in nearly silencing the top, by a 


166 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


heavy fire of musketry established on the bow- 
sprit and spritsail-yard. 

Events passed much faster than they can be 
related. The enemy were in possession of all 
the forward part of the ship to her fore-hatches, 
but into these young Hopper had thrown himself 
with half a dozen men, and, aided by a brother 
midshipman in the launch, backed by a few fol- 
lowers, they still held the assailants at bay. 
Ludlow cast an eye behind him, and began to 
think of selling his life as dearly as possible in 
the cabins. That glance was arrested by the 
sight of the malign smile of the sea-green lady, 
as the gleaming face rose above the taffrail. A 
dozen dark forms leaped upon the poop, and then 
arose a voice that sent every tone it uttered to 
his heart. 

“ Abide the shock ! ” was the shout of those 
who came to the succor ; and “ abide the shock ! ” 
was echoed by the crew. The mysterious image 
glided along the deck, and Ludlow knew the ath- 
letic frame that brushed through the throng at 
its side. 

There was little noise in the onset, save the 
groans of the sufferers. It endured but a mo- 
ment, but it was a moment that resembled the 
passage of a whirlwind. The defendants knew 
that they were succored, and the assailants re- 
coiled before so unexpected a foe. The few that 
were caught beneath the forecastle were merci- 
lessly slain, and those above were swept from 
their post like chaff drifting in a gale. The liv- 
ing and the dead were heard falling into the sea, 
and, in an inconceivably short space of time, the 
decks of the Coquette were free. A solitary en- 
emy still hesitated on the bowsprit. A powerful 
and active frame leaped along the spar, and 
though the blow was not seen, its effects were vis- 
ible, as the victim tumbled helplessly into the 
ocean. 

The hurried dash of oars followed, and before 
the defendants had time to assure themselves of 
the completeness of their success, the gloomy 
void of the surrounding ocean had swallowed up 
the boats. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

“ That face of his I do remember well ; 

Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear^ 

As black as Vulcan, in the smoke of war.” 

Twelfth Night. 

From the moment when the Coquette fired 
her first gun, to the moment when the retiring 
boats became invisible, was just twenty minutes. 


Of this time, less than half had been occupied by 
the incidents related in the ship. Short as it was 
in truth, it seemed to all engaged but an instant. 
The alarm was over, the sound of the oars had 
ceased, and still the survivors stood at their 
posts as if expecting the attack to be renewed. 
Then came- those personal thoughts, which had 
been suspended in the fearful exigency of such a 
struggle. The wounded began to feel their pain, 
and to be sensible of the daDger of their injuries ; 
while the few, who had escaped unhurt, turned a 
friendly care on their shipmates. Ludlow, as of- 
ten happens with the bravest and most exposed, 
had escaped without a scratch; but he saw by 
the drooping forms around him, which were no 
longer sustained by the excitement of battle, that 
his triumph was dearly purchased. 

“ Send Mr. Trysail to me,” he said, in a tone 
that had little of a victor’s exultation. “ The 
land-breeze has made, and we will endeavor to 
improve it, and get inside the cape, lest the morn- 
ing light give us more of these Frenchmen.” 

The order for “ Mr. Trysail 1 ” “ The captain 
calls the master ! ” passed in a low call from 
mouth to mouth, but it was unanswered. A sea- 
man told the expecting young commander that 
the surgeon desired his presence forward. A 
gleaming of lights and a little group at the foot 
of the foremast was a beacon not to be mistaken. 
The weather-beaten master was in agony ; and 
his medical attendant had just risen from a fruit- 
less examination of his wounds, as Ludlow ap- 
proached. 

“ I hope the hurt is not serious ? ” hurriedly 
whispered the alarmed young sailor to the sur- 
geon, who was coolly collecting his implements, 
in order to administer to some more promising 
subject. “Neglect nothing that your art can 
suggest.” 

“ The case is desperate, Captain Ludlow,” re- 
turned the phlegmatic surgeon ; “ but if you 
have a taste for such things, there is as beautiful 
a case for amputation promised in the foretop-man 
whom I have had sent below, as offers once in a 
whole life of active practice ! ” 

“ Go, go — ” interrupted Ludlow, half pushing 
the unmoved man of blood away, as he spoke ; 
“ go, then, where your services are needed.” 

The other cast a glance around him, reproved 
his attendant, in a sharp tone, for unnecessarily 
exposing the blade of some ferocious-looking in- 
strument to the dew, and departed. 

“Would to God that some portion of these 
injuries had befallen those who are younger and 
stronger ! ” murmured the captain, as he leaned 
over the dying master. « Can I do aught to 


AN ALARM 


relieve thy mind, my old and worthy ship- 
mate ? ” 

“ I have had my misgivings, since we have dealt 
with witchcraft ! ” returned Trysail, whose voice 
the rattling of the throat had already nearly si- 
lenced; “I have had misgivings — hut no mat- 
ter. Take care of the ship — I have been think- 
ing of our people — you’ll have to cut — they can 
never lift the anchor — the wind is here at north.” 

“ All this is ordered. Trouble thyself no fur- 
ther about the vessel ; she shall be taken care of, 
I promise you. Speak of thy wife, and of thy 
wishes in England.” 

“ God bless Mrs. Trysail ! She’ll get a pen- 
* sion, and I hope contentment ! You must give 
the reef a good berth, in rounding Montauk — and 
you’ll naturally wish to »find the anchors again 
when the coast is clear — if you can find it in your 
conscience, say a good word of poor old Ben Try- 
sail, in the dispatches — ” 

The voice of the master sank to a whisper, 
j and became inaudible. Ludlow thought he strove 
to speak again, and he bent his ear to his mouth. 

“ I say — the weather-main-swifter and both 
backstays are gone ; look to the spars, for — for 
— there are sometimes — heavy puffs at night — in 
the Americas ! ” 

The last heavy respiration succeeded, after 
which came the long silence of death. The body 
was removed to the poop, and Ludlow, with a 
saddened heart, turned to duties that this acci- 
■ dent rendered still more imperative. 

Notwithstanding the heavy loss, and the origi- 
nally weakened state of her crew, the sails of the 
Coquette were soon spread, and the ship moved 
away in silence, as if sorrowing for those who had 
fallen at her anchorage. When the vessel was 
fairly in motion, her captain ascended to the 
poop, in order to command a clearer view of all 
around him, as well as to profit by the situation to 
arrange his plans for the future. He found he 
had been anticipated by the free-trader. 

“ I owe my ship — I may say my life, since in 
such a conflict they would have gone together, 
to thy succor ! ” said the young commander, as 
he approached the motionless form of the smug- 
gler. “ Without it, Queen Anne would have lost 
a cruiser, and the flag of England a portion of its 
well-earned glory.” 

“May thy royal mistress prove as ready to re- 
member her friends in emergencies as mine. In 
good truth, there was little tine to lose, and, trust 
me, we well understood the extremity. If we 
were tardy, it was because whale-boats were to 
be brought from a distance ; for the land lies be- 
tween my brigantine and the sea.” 


OF FIRE. 167 

“ He who came so opportunely, and acted so 
well, needs no apology.” 

“ Captain Ludlow, are we friends ? ” 

“ It cannot be otherwise. All minor consid- 
erations must be lost in such a service. If it is 
your intention to push this illegal trade further 
on the coast, I must seek another station.” 

“Not so. Remain, and do credit to your flag 
and the land of your birth. I have long thought 
this is the last time the keel of the Water-Witch 
will ever plough the American seas. Before I quit 
you, I would have an interview with the mer- 
chant. A worse man might have fallen, and just 
now even a better man might be spared. I hope 
no harm has come to him ? ” 

“ He has shown the steadiness of his Holland 
lineage to-day. During the boarding he was use- 
ful and cool.” 

“ It is well. Let the alderman be summoned 
to the deck, for my time is limited, and I have 
much to say — ” 

The Skimmer paused, for at that moment a 
fierce light glared upon the ocean, the ship, and 
all in it. The two seamen gazed at each other in 
silence, and recoiled, as men recede before an un- 
expected and fearful attack. But a bright and 
wavering light, which rose out of the forward 
hatch of the vessel, explained all. At the same 
moment, the deep stillness which, since the bustle 
of making sail had ceased, pervaded the ship, 
was broken by the appalling cry of “ Fire ! ” 

The alarm which brings the blood in the swift- 
est current to a seaman’s heart, was now heard 
in the depths of the vessel. The smothered 
sounds below, the advancing uproar, and the 
rush on deck, with the awful summons in the 
open air, succeeded each other with the rapidity 
of lightning. A dozen voices repeated the word 
“ The grenade ! ” proclaiming in a breath both 
the danger and the cause. But an instant before, 
the swelling canvas, the dusky spars, and the 
faint lilies of the cordage, were only to be traced by 
the glimmering light of the stars ; now the whole 
hamper of the ship was the more conspicuous, 
from the obscure background against which it 
was drawn in distinct lines. The sight was fear- 
fully beautiful — beautiful, for it showed the 
symmetry and fine outlines of the vessel’s rig, re- 
sembling the effect of a group of statuary seen 
by torch-light — fearful, since the dark void be- 
yond sSemed to declare their isolated and helpless 
state. 

There was one breathless, eloquent moment 
in which all were seen gazing at the grand spec- 
tacle in mute awe — then a voice rose, clear, dis- 
tinct, and commanding, above the sullen sound 


168 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


of the torrent of fire, which was roaring among 
the avenues of the ship. 

“ Call all hands to extinguish fire ! Gentle- 
men, to your stations. Be cool, men ; and be si- 
lent ! v 

There was a calmness and an authority in 
the tones of the young commander, that curbed 
the impetuous feelings of the startled crew. Ac- 
customed to obedience, and trained to order, each 
man woke out of his trance and eagerly com- 
menced the discharge of his allotted duty. At 
that instant, an erect and unmoved form stood 
on the coamings of the main hatch. A hand was 
raised in the air, and the call which came from 
the deep chest was like that of one used to speak 
in the tempest. 

“ Where are my brigantines ? ” it said. — 
“ Come away there, my sea-dogs ; wet the light 
sails, and follow ! ” 

A group of grave and submissive mariners 
gathered about the “ Skimmer of the Seas,” at 
the sound of his voice. Glancing an eye over 
them, as if to scan their quality and number, he 
smiled with a look in which high daring and 
practised self-command were blended with a con- 
stitutional gaite de cceur. 

“One deck or two!” — he added; “what 
avails a plank more or less, in an explosion ? — 
Follow ! ” 

The free-trader and his people disappeared in 
the interior of the ship. An interval of great 
and resolute exertion succeeded. Blankets, sails, 
and every thing which offered, and which prom- 
ised to be of use, were wetted and cast upon 
the flames. The engine was brought to bear, 
and the ship was deluged with water. But the 
confined space, with the heat and smoke, rendered 
it impossible to penetrate to those parts of the 
vessel where the conflagration raged. The ardor 
of the men abated as hope lessened ; and, after 
half an hour of fruitless exertion, Ludlow saw 
with pain that his assistants began to yield to 
the inextinguishable principle of Nature. The 
appearance of the Skimmer on deck, followed by 
all his people, destroyed hope, and every effort 
ceased as suddenly as it had commenced. 

“ Think of your wounded,” whispered the 
free-trader, with a steadiness no danger could dis- 
turb. “We stand on a raging volcano ! ” 

“I have ordered the gunner to drown the 
magazine.” 

“ He was too late. The hold of the ship is a 
fiery furnace. I heard him fall among the store- 
rooms. and it surpassed the power of man to give 
the wretch succor. The grenade has fallen near 
some combustibles, and, painful as it is to part 


with a ship so loved, Ludlow, thou wilt meet the 
loss like a man ! Think of thy wounded ; my 
boats are still hanging at the stern.” 

Ludlow reluctantly but firmly gave the order 
to bear the wounded to the boats. This was an 
arduous and delicate duty. The smallest boy in 
the ship knew the whole extent of the danger, 
and that a moment, by the explosion of the pow- 
der, might precipitate them all into eternity. 
The deck forward was getting too hot to be en- 
dured, and there were places even in which the 
beams had given symptoms of yielding. 

But the poop, elevated still above the fire, 
offered a momentary refuge. Thither all retired, 
while the weak and wounded were lowered, with 
the caution circumstances would permit, into the 
whale-boat's of the smugglers. 

Ludlow stood at one ladder and the free-trad- 
er at the other, in order to be certain that none 
proved recreant in so trying a moment. Near 
them were Alida, Seadrift, and the alderman, with 
the attendants of the former. 

It seemed an age before this humane and ten- 
der duty was performed. At length the cry of 
“ All in ! ” was uttered, in a manner to betray the 
extent of the self-command that had been neces- 
sary to effect it. 

“ Now, Alida, we may think of thee ! ” said 
Ludlow, turning to the spot occupied by the si- 
lent heiress. 

“And you ! ” she said, hesitating to move. 

“ Duty demands that I should be the last — ” 

A sharp explosion beneath, and fragments of 
fire flying upward through a hatch, interrupted his 
words. Plunges into the sea, and a rush of the 
people to the boats, followed. All order and au- 
thority were completely lost, in the instinct of life. 
In vain did Ludlow call on his men to be cool, and 
to wait for those who were still above. His words 
were lost, in the uproar of clamorous voices. For 
a moment it seemed, however, as if the “ Skim- 
mer of the Seas ” would overcome the confusion. 
Throwing himself on a ladder, he glided into the 
bows of one of the boats, and, holding by the 
ropes with a vigorous arm, he resisted the efforts 
of all the oars and boat-hooks, while he de- 
nounced destruction on him who dared to quit 
the ship. Had not the two crews been mingled, 
the high authority and determined mien of the 
free-trader would have prevailed ; but, while some 
were disposed to obey, others raised a cry of 
“ Throw the dealer in witchcraft into the sea ! ” 
Boat-hooks were already pointed at his breast, 
and the horrors of the fearful moment were about 
to be increased by the violence of a mutinous con- 
tention, when a second explosion nerved the arms 


A HELPLESS PARTY. 


169 


of the rowers to madness. With a common and 
desperate effort, they overcame all resistance. 
Swinging off upon the ladder, the furious seaman 
saw the boat glide from his grasp, and depart. 
The execration that was uttered, beneath the 
stern of the Coquette, was deep and powerful; 
but, in another moment, the Skimmer stood on the 
poop, calm and undejected, in the centre of the 
! deserted group. 

“ The explosion of a few of the officers’ pistols 
has frightened the miscreants,” he said cheerfully. 
“But hope is not yet lost ! — They linger in the 
distance, and may return ! ” 

The sight of the helpless party on the poop, 
and the consciousness of being less exposed 
themselves, had indeed arrested the progress of 
the fugitives. Still, selfishness predominated; 
and, while most regretted their danger, none but 
the young and unheeded midshipmen, who were 
neither of an age nor of a rank to wield sufficient 
authority, proposed to return. There was little 
argument necessary to show that the perils in- 
creased at each moment ; and, finding that no oth- 
er expedient remained, the gallant youths encour- 
aged the men to pull toward the land, intending 
themselves to return instantly to the assistance 
of their commander and his friends. The oars 
dashed into the water again, and the retiring 
boats were soon lost to view in the body of dark- 
: ness. 

While the fire had been raging within, another 
element without had aided to lessen hope for 
those who were abandoned. The wind from the 
land had continued to rise, and, during the time 
lost in useless exertion, the ship had been per- 
mitted to run nearly before it. When hope was 
gone, the helm had been deserted, and, as all the 
lower sails had been hauled up to avoid the flames, 
the vessel had drifted many minutes nearly dead 
to leeward. The mistaken youths, who had not 
attended to these circumstances, were already 
miles from that beach they hoped to reach so 
soon ; and, ere the boats had separated from the 
ship five minutes, they were hopelessly asunder. 
Ludlow had early thought of the expedient of 
stranding the vessel as the means of saving her 
people ; but his better knowledge of their posi- 
tion soon showed him the utter futility of the at- 
tempt. 

Of the progress of the flames beneath, the 
mariners could only judge by circumstances. 
The Skimmer glanced his eye about him, on re- 
gaining the poop, and appeared to scan the 
amount and quality of the physical force that was 
still at their disposal. He saw that the alderman, 
the faithful Francis, and two of his own seamen, 


with four of the petty officers of the ship, re- 
mained. The six latter, even in that moment of 
desperation, had calmly refused to desert their 
officers. 

“ The flames are in the state-rooms ! ” he 
whispered to Ludlow. 

“ Not farther aft, I think, than the berths of 
the midshipmen — else we should hear more pis- 
tols.” 

“ True — they are fearful signals to let us 
know the progress of the fire ! — our resource is a 
raft.” 

Ludlow looked as if he despaired of the means, 
but, concealing the discouraging fear, he answered 
cheerfully in the affirmative. The orders were 
instantly given, and all on board gave themselves 
to the task, heart and hand. The danger was 
one that admitted of no ordinary or half-con- 
ceived expedients ; but, in such an emergency, it 
required all the readiness of their art, and even 
the greatness of that conception which is the 
property of genius. All distinctions of rank and 
authority had ceased, except as deference was 
paid to natural qualities and the intelligence 
of experience. Under such circumstances, the 
“Skimmer of the Seas” took the lead; and 
though Ludlow caught his ideas with professional 
quickness, it was the mind of the free-trader that 
controlled throughout the succeeding exertions 
of that fearful night. 

The cheek of Alida was blanched to a deadly 
paleness ; but there rested about the bright and 
wild eyes of Seadrift an expression of supernatu- 
ral resolution. 

When the crew abandoned the hope of ex- 
tinguishing the flames, they closed all the hatches, 
to retard the crisis Is much as possible. Here 
and there, however, little torch-like lights were 
beginning to show themselves through the planks, 
and the whole deck forward of the main-mast was 
already in a critical and sinking state. One or 
two of the beams had failed ; but, as yet, the 
form of the construction was preserved. Still 
the seamen distrusted the treacherous footing ; 
and, had the heat permitted the experiment, they 
would have shrunk from a risk which at any 
unexpected moment might commit them to the 
fiery furnace beneath. 

The smoke ceased, and a clear, powerful light 
illuminated the ship to her trucks. In conse- 
quence of the care and exertions of her people, 
the sails and masts were yet untouched ; and, as 
the graceful canvas swelled with the breeze, it 
still urged the blazing hull through the water. 

The forms of the Skimmer and his assistants 
were visible, in the midst of the gallant gear, 


170 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


perched on the giddy yards. Seen by that light 
with his peculiar attire, his firm and certain step, 
and his resolute air, the free-trader resembled 
some fancied sea-god, who, secure in his immor- 
tal immunities, had come to act his part in that 
awful but exciting trial of hardihood and skill. 
Seconded by the common men, he was employed 
in cutting the canvas from the yards. Sail after 
sail fell upon the deck, and, in an incredibly 
short space of time, the whole of the foremast 
was naked to its spars and rigging. 

In the mean time, Ludlow, assisted by the al- 
derman and Francis, had not been idle below. 
Passing forward between the empty ridge-ropes, 
lanyard after lanyard parted under the blows of 
their little boarding-axes. The mast now de- 
pended on the strength of the wood and the sup- 
port of a single back-stay. 

“• Lay down ! ” shouted Ludlow. “ All is gone 
aft, but this stay ! ” 

The Skimmer leaped upon the firm rope, fol- 
lowed by all aloft, and, gliding downward, he was 
instantly in the hammock-cloths. A crash fol- 
lowed their descent, and an explosion, which 
caused the whole of the burning fabric to tremble 
to its centre, seemed to announce the end of all. 
Even the free-trader recoiled before the horrible 
din; but, when he stood near Seadrift and the 
heiress again, there was cheerfulness in his tones, 
and a look of high, and even of gay resolution, 
in his firm countenance. 

“ The deck has failed forward,” he said, “ and 
our artillery is beginning to utter fearful signal- 
guns ! Be of cheer ! — the magazine of a ship 
lies deep, and many sheathed bulkheads still pro- 
tect us.” 

Another discharge from * a heated gun, how- 
ever, proclaimed the rapid progress of the flames. 
The fire broke out of the interior anew, and the 
foremast kindled. 

“ There must be an end of this ! ” said Alida, 
clasping her hands in a terror that could not be 
controlled, “ Save yourselves, if possible, you 
who have strength and courage, and leave us to 
the mercy of Him whose eye is over all ! ” 

“ Go ! ” added Seadrift, whose sex could no 
longer be concealed. “ Human courage can do 
no more ; leave us to die ! ” 

The looks that were returned to these sad 
requests w6re melancholy, but unmoved. The 
Skimmer caught a rope, and, still holding it in his 
hand, he descended to the quarter-deck, on which 
he at first trusted his weight with jealous caution. 
Then, looking up, he smiled encouragingly, and 
said, “ Where a gun still stands, there is no dan- 
ger for the weight of a man ! ” 


“ It is our only resource,” cried Ludlow, imi- 
tating his example. “ On, my men, while the 
beams will still hold us.” 

In a moment, all were on the quarter-deck, 
though the excessive heat rendered it impossible 
to remain stationary an instant. A gun on each 
side was run in, its tackles loosened, and its muz- 
zle pointed toward the tottering, unsupported, 
but still upright foremast. 

“Aim at the cleets ! ” said Ludlow to the 
Skimmer, who pointed one gun, while he did the 
same office at the other. 

“ Hold ! ” cried the latter. “ Throw in shot, 
it is but the chance between a bursting gun and 
a lighted magazine ! ” 

Additional balls were introduced into each 
piece, and then, with steady hands, the gallant 
mariners applied burning brands to the priming. 
The discharges were simultaneous, and for an in- 
stant volumes of smoke rolled along the deck 
and seemed to triumph over the conflagration. 
The rending of wood was audible. It was fol- 
lowed by a sweeping noise in the air, and the fall 
of the foremast, with all its burden of spars, into 
the sea. The motion of the ship was instantly 
arrested, and, as the heavy timbers were still at- 
tached to the bowsprit by the forward stays, her 
head came to the wind, when the remaining top- 
sails flapped, shivered, and took aback. 

The vessel was now, for the first time during 
the fire, stationary. The common mariners prof- 
ited by the circumstance : and, darting past the 
mounting flame along the bulwarks, they gained 
the topgallant forecastle, which, though heated, 
was yet untouched. The Skimmer glanced an 
eye about him, and seizing Seadrift by the waist, 
as if the mimic seaman had been a child, he 
pushed forward between the ridge-ropes. Lud- 
low followed with Alida, and* the others imitated 
their example in the best manner they could. 
All reached the head of the ship in safety ; though 
Ludlow had been driven by the flames into the 
fore-channels, and thence nearly into the sea. 

The petty officers were already on the floating 
spars separating them from each other, cutting 
away the unnecessary weight of rigging, bringing 
the several parts of the wood in parallel lines, and 
lashing them anew. Ever and anon, these rapid 
movements were quickened by one of those fear- 
ful signals from the officers’ berths, which, by an- 
nouncing the progress of the flames beneath, be- 
trayed their increasing proximity to the still slum- 
bering volcano. The boats had been gone an hour, 
yet it seemed, to all in the ship, but a minute. 
The conflagration had, for the last ten minutes, 
advanced with renewed fnry ; and the -whole of 


THE COQUETTE DESTROYED. 


the confined flame, which had been so long pent 
in the depths of the vessel, now glared high in the 
open air. 

“ This heat can no longer be borne,” said 
Ludlow ; “ we must to our raft for breath.” 

“ To the raft, then ! ” returned the cheerful 
voice of the free-trader. “ Haul in upon your 
fasts, men, and stand by to receive the precious 
freight.” 

The seamen obeyed. Alida and her compan- 
ions were lowered safely to the place prepared 
for their reception. The foremast had gone over 
the side with all its spars aloft ; for preparation 
had been made, before the fire commenced, to 
carry sail to the utmost in order to escape the 
enemy. The skilful and active seamen, directed 
and aided by Ludlow and the Skimmer, had made 
a simple but happy disposition of those buoyant 
materials on which their all now depended. In 
settling in the water, the yards, still crossed, had 
happily fallen uppermost. The booms and all 
the light spars had been floated near the top, and 
laid across, reaching from the lower to the top- 
sail-yard. A few light spars, stowed outboard, 
had been cut away and added to the number, and 
the whole were secured with the readiness and 
ingenuity of seamen. On the first alarm of fire, 
some of the crew had seized a few light articles 
that would float, and rushed to the head, as the 
place most remote from the magazine, in the 
blind hope of saving life by swimming. Most of 
these articles had been deserted when the people 
were rallied to exertion by their officers. A 
couple of empty shot-boxes and a mess-chest 
were among them, and on the latter were seated 
the females, while the former served to keep 
their feet from the water. As the arrangement 
of the spars forced the principal mast entirely 
beneath the element, and the ship was so small 
as to need little artificial work in her masting, the 
part around the top, which contained the stag- 
ing, was scarcely submerged. Although a ton 
in weight was added to the inherent gravity of 
the wood, still, as the latter was of the lightest 
description, and freed as much as possible of 
everything that was unnecessary to the safety of 
those it supported, the spars floated sufficiently 
buoyant for the temporary security of the fugi- 
tives. 

“ Cut the fasts ! ” said Ludlow, involuntarily 
starting at several explosions in the interior, 
which followed each other in quick succession, 
and which were succeeded by one which sent 
fragments of burning wood into the air. “ Cut, 
and bear the raft off the ship ! — God knows we 
have need to be farther asunder ! ”# 


171 

“ Cut not ! ” cried the half-frantic Seadrift — 
“ my brave ! — my devoted ! — ” 

“Is safe — ’’ calmly said the Skimmer, ap- 
pearing in the rattlins of the main-rigging, which 
was still untouched by the fire. — “ Cut off all ! I 
stay to brace the mizzen-topsail more firmly 
aback.” 

The duty was done, and for a moment the fine 
figure of the free-trader was seen standing on the 
edge of the burning ship, looking with regret at 
the glowing mass. 

“ ’Tis the end of a lovely craft ! ” he said, 
loud enough to be heard by those beneath. 
Then he appeared in the air and sank into the 
sea. “ The last signal was from the ward-room,” 
added the dauntless and dexterous mariner as 
he rose from the water, and, shaking the brine 
from his head, he took his place on the stage. 
“Would to God the wind would blow, for we 
have need of greater distance ! ” 

The precaution the free-trader had taken in 
adjusting the sails was not without its use. Mo- 
tion the raft had none, but as the topsails of the 
Coquette were still aback, the flaming mass, no 
longer arrested by the clogs in the water, began 
slowly to separate from the floating spars, though 
the tottering and half-burnt masts threatened, at 
each moment, to fall. 

Never did moments seem so long as those 
which succeeded. Even the Skimmer and Lud- 
low watched, in speechless interest, the tardy 
movements of the ship. By little and little she 
receded; and, after ten minutes of intense ex- 
pectation, the seamen, whose anxiety had in- 
creased as their exertions ended, began to breathe 
more freely. They were still fearfully near the 
dangerous fabric, but destruction from the ex- 
plosion was no longer inevitable. The flames 
began to glide upward, and the heavens appeared 
on fire, as one heated sail after another kindled 
and flared wildly in the breeze. 

Still the stern of the vessel was entire. Tlife 
body of the master was seated against the mizzen- 
mast, and even the stern visage of the old seaman ' 
was distinctly visible, under the broad light of - 
the conflagration. Ludlow gazed at it in melan- 
choly, and for a time he ceased to think of his 
ship, while memory dwelt, in sadness, on those 
scenes of boyish happiness, and of professional 
pleasures, in which his ancient shipmate had so 
largely participated. The roar of a gun, whose 
stream of fire flashed nearly to their faces, and 
the sullen whistling of its shot, which crossed 
the raft, failed to awaken him from his trance. 

“Stand firm to the mess-chest!” half-whis- 
pered the Skimmer, motioning to his companions 


172 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


to place themselves in attitudes to support the 
weaker of their party, while, with sedulous care, 
he braced his own athletic person in a manner 
to throw all of its weight and strength against 
the seat. u Stand firm, and be ready ! ” 

Ludlow complied, though his eye scarcely 
changed its direction. He saw the bright flame 
that was rising above the arm-chest, and he fan- 
cied that it came from the funeral-pile of the 
young Dumont, whose fate, at that moment, he 
was almost disposed to envy. Then his look re- 
turned to the grim countenance of Trysail. At 
moments, it seemed as if the dead master spoke ; 
and so strong did the illusion become, that our 
young sailor more than once bent forward to lis- 
ten. While under this delusion, the body rose, 
with the arms Stretched upward. The air was 
filled with a sheet of streaming fire, while the 
ocean and the heavens glowed with one glare of 
intense and fiery red. Notwithstanding the pre- 
caution of the “ Skimmer of the Seas,” the chest 
was driven from its place, and those by whom it 
was held were nearly precipitated into the water. 
A deep, heavy detonation proceeded as it were 
from the bosom of the sea, which, while it 
wounded the ear less than the sharp explosion 
that had just before issued from the gun, was 
audible at the distant capes of the Delaware. 
The body of Trysail sailed upward for fifty fath- 
oms, in the centre of a flood of flame, and, de- 
scribing a short curve, it came toward the raft, 
and cut the water within reach of the captain’s 
arm. A sullen plunge of a gun followed, and 
proclaimed the tremendous power of the explo- 
sion ; while a ponderous yard fell athwart a part 
of the raft, sweeping away the four petty officers 
of Ludlow, as if they had been dust driving be- 
fore a gale. To increase the wild and fearful 
grandeur of the dissolution of the royal cruiser, 
one of the cannon emitted its fiery contents while 
sailing in the void. 

The burning spars, the falling fragments, the 
blazing and scattered canvas and cordage, the 
glowing shot, and all the torn particles of the 
ship, were seen descending. Then followed the 
gurgling of the water, as the ocean swallowed all 
that remained of the cruiser which had so long 
been the pride of the American seas. The fiery 
glow disappeared ; and a gloom, like that which 
succeeds the glare of vivid lightning, fell on the 
scene. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

“ Please you, read.” 

Cymbelixe. 

“ It is past 1 ” said the “ Skimmer of the Seas,” 
raising himself from the attitude of great muscu- 
lar exertion, which he had assumed in order to 
support the mess-chest, and walking out along the 
I single mast, toward the spot whence the four sea- 
I men of Ludlow had just been swept. “It is 
past ! and those who are called to the last ac- 
count have met their fate in such a scene as none 
but a seaman may witness ; while those who are 
spared have need of all a seaman’s skill and res- 
olution for that which remains. Captain Ludlow, 
I do not despair ; for, see, the lady of the brigan- 
tine has still a smile for her servitors ! ” 

Ludlow, who had followed the steady and dar- 
ing free-trader to the place where the spar had 
fallen, turned and cast a look in the direction in 
which the other stretched his arm. Within a 
hundred feet of him, he saw the image of the sea- 
green lady, rocking on the agitated water, and 
turned toward the raft with its usual expression 
of wild and malicious intelligence. This emblem 
of their fancied mistress had been borne in front 
of the smugglers, when they mounted the poop 
of the Coquette ; and the steeled staff on which 
the lantern was perched had been stuck into a 
horse-bucket by the standard-bearer of the mo- 
ment ere he entered the melee of the combat. 
During the conflagration, this object had more 
than once met the eye of Ludlow ; and now it ap- 
peared floating quietly by him, in a manner al- 
most to shake even his contempt for the ordinary 
superstitions of seamen. While he hesitated in 
what manner he should reply to his companion’s 
remark, the latter plunged into the sea, and 
swam toward the light. He was soon by the side 
of the raft again, bearing aloft the symbol of his 
brigantine. There are none so firm in the do- 
minion of reason as to be entirely superior to the 
secret Impulses which teach us all to believe in 
the hidden agency of a good or an evil fortune. 
The voice of the free-trader was more cheerful, 
and his step more sure and elastic, as he crossed 
the stage and struck the armed end of the staff 
into that part of the top-rim of the Coquette which 
floated uppermost. 

“ Courage 1 ” he gayly cried. “ While this 
light burns, my star is not set ! Courage, lady 
of the land ; for here is one of the deep waters, 
who still looks kindly on her followers ! We are 
at sea, on a frail craft it is certain, but a dull 
sailor may wake a sure passage. — Speak, gallant 


ON A RAFT. 


173 


Master Seadrift: thy gayety and spirit should re- 
vive under so goodly an omen ! ” 

But the agent of so many pleasant masquer- 
ades, and the instrument of so much of his arti- 
fice, had not a fortitude equal to the buoyant 
temper of the smuggler. The counterfeit bowed 
his head by the side of the silent Alida, without 
a reply. The “ Skimmer of the Seas ” regarded 
the group, a moment, with manly interest; and, 
touching the arm of Ludlow, he walked with a 
balancing step along the spars, until they had 
reached a spot where they might confer without 
causing unnecessary alarm to their companions. 

Although so imminent and so pressing a dan- 
ger as that of the explosion had passed, the situa- 
tion of those who had escaped was scarcely better 
than that of those who had been lost. The heav- 
ens showed a few glimmering stars in the open- 
ings of the clouds ; and, now that the first contrast 
of the change had lessened, there was just enough 
of light to render all the features of their actual 
state gloomily imposing. 

It has been said that the foremast of the Co- 
quette went by the board, with most of its ham- 
per aloft. The sails, with such portion of the rig- 
ging as might help to sustain it, had been hastily 
cut away as related ; and after its fall, until the 
moment of the explosion, the common men had 
been engaged, either in securing the staging, or 
in clearing the wreck of those heavy ropes which, 
useless as fastenings, only added to the weight of 
i the mass. The whole wreck lay upon the sea, 
with the yards crossed and in their places, much 
as the spars had stood. The large booms had 
been unshipped, and laid in such a manner around 
the top, with the ends resting on the lower and 
topsail-yards, as to form the foundation of the 
staging. The smaller booms, with the mess-chest 
and shot-boxes, were all that lay between the 
group in the centre and the depths of the ocean. 
The upper part of the top-rim rose a few feet above 
the water, and formed an important protection 
against the night-breeze and the constant washing 
of the waves. In this manner were the females 
seated, cautioned not to trust their feet on the 
frail security of the booms, and supported by the 
unremitting care of the alderman. Francis had 
submitted to be lashed to the top by one of the 
brigantine’s seamen ; while the latter, all of the 
common herd who remained, encouraged by the 
presence of their standard-light, began to occupy 
themselves in looking to the fastenings and other 
securities of the raft. 

“ We are in no condition for a long or an ac- 
tive cruise, Captain Ludlow,” said the Skimmer, 
when he and his companion were out of hearing. 


u I have been at sea in all weathers, and in every 
description of craft ; but this is the boldest of 
my experiments on the water. I hope it may not 
be the last ! ” 

“We cannot conceal from ourselves the fright- 
ful hazards we run,” returned Ludlow, “ however 
much we may wish them to be a secret to some 
among us.” 

“ This is truly a deserted sea to be abroad in, 
on a raft! Were we in the narrow passages be- 
tween the British islands and the main, or even 
in the Biscay waters, there would be hope that 
some trader or roving cruiser might cross our 
track ; but our chance here lies much between 
the Frenchman and the brigantine.” 

“ The enemy has, doubtless, seen and heard 
the explosion, and, as the land is so near, they 
will infer that the people are saved in the boats. 
Our chance of seeing more of them is much di- 
minished by the accident of the fire, since there will 
no longer be a motive for remaining on the coast.” 

“ And will your young officers abandon their 
captain without a search ? ” 

“ Hope of aid from that quarter is faint. The 
ship ran miles while in flames, and, before the 
light returns, these spars will have drifted leagues, 
with the ebbing tide, to seaward.” 

“ Truly, I have sailed with better auguries ! ” 
observed the Skimmer. “ What are the bearings 
and distance of the land ? ” 

“ It still lies to the north, but we are fast set- 
ting east and southerly. Ere morning we shall 
be abeam of Montauk, or even beyond it ; we 
must already be some leagues in the offing.” 

“ That is worse than I had imagined ! — but 
there is hope on the flood ! ” 

“The flood will ' bear us northward again — 
but — what think you of the heavens ? ” 

“ Unfavorable, though not desperate. The sea- 
breeze will return with the sun.” 

“ And with it will return the swell ! How long 
will these ill-secured spars hold together, when 
agitated by the heave of the water? Or how 
long will those with us bear up against the wash 
of the sea, unsupported by nourishment ? ” 

“You paint in gloomy colors, Captain Lud- 
low,” said the free-trader, drawing a heavy breath, 
in spite of all his resolution. “ My experience 
tells me you are right, though my wishes would 
fain contradict you. Still, I think we have the 
promise of a tranquil night.” 

“ Tranquil for a ship, or even for a boat ; but 
hazardous to a raft like this. You see that this 
topmast already works in the cap at each heave 
of the water, and, as the wood loosens, our secu- 
rity lessens.” 


174 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


“ Thy counsel is not flattering ! Captain Lud- 
low, you are a seaman and a man, and I shall not 
attempt to trifle with your knowledge. With 
you, I think the danger imminent, and almost our 
only hope dependent on the good fortune of my 
brigantine.” 

“ Will those in her think it their duty to quit 
their anchorage, to come in quest of a raft whose 
existence is unknown to them ? ” 

“ There is hope in the vigilance of her of the 
sea-green mantle ! You may deem this fanciful 
or even worse, at such a moment ; but I, who 
have run so many gantlets under her favor, have 
faith in her fortunes. Surely, you are not a sea- 
man, Captain Ludlow, without a secret dependence 
on some unseen and potent agency ! ” 

“ My dependence is placed in the agency of 
Him who is all-potent, but never visible. If He 
forget us, we may indeed despair ! ” 

“ This is well, but it is not the fortune I would 
express. Believe me, spite of an education which 
teaches all you have said, and of a reason that 
is often too clear for folly, there is a secret re- 
liance on hidden chances, that has been created 
by a life of activity and hazard, and which, if it 
should do nothing better, does not abandon me 
to despair. The omen of the light and the smile 
of my mistress would cheer me, spite of a thou- 
sand philosophers ! ” 

“ You are fortunate in pur chasing consolation 
so cheaply,” returned the commander of Queen 
Anne, who felt a latent hope in his companion’s 
confidence that he would have hesitated to ac- 
knowledge. “ I See but little that we can do to 
aid our chances, except it be to clear away all un- 
necessary weight, and to secure the raft as much 
as possible by additional lashings.” 

The “ Skimmer of the Seas ” assented to the 
proposal. Consulting a moment longer, on the de- 
tails of their expedients, they rejoined the group 
near the top, in order to see them executed. As 
the seamen on the raft were reduced to the two 
people of the brigantine, Ludlow and his compan- 
ion were obliged to assist in the performance of 
the duty. - 

Much useless rigging, that added to the press- 
ure without aiding the buoyancy of the raft, was 
cut away ; and all the boom-irons were knocked 
off the yards, and suffered to descend to the bot- 
tom of the ocean. By these means a great weight 
was taken from the raft, which, in consequence, 
floated with so much additional power to sustain 
those who depended on it for life. The- Skimmer, 
accompanied by his two silent but obedient seamen, 
ventured along the attenuated and submerged 
spars to the extremity of the tapering masts, and, 


after toiling with the dexterity of men accustomed 
to deal with the complicated machinery of a ship 
in the darkest nights, they succeeded in releasing 
the two smaller masts with their respective yards 
and in floating them down to the body of the 
wreck, or the part around the top. Here the 
sticks were crossed in a manner to give great ad- 
ditional strength and footing to the stage. 

There was an air of hope, and a feeling of in- 
creased security, in this employment. Even the 
alderman and Francis aided in the task, to the 
extent of their knowledge and force. But when 
these alterations were made, and additional lash- 
ings had been applied to keep the topmast and 
the larger yards in their places, Ludlow, by 
joining those who were around the mast-head, 
tacitly admitted that little more could be done to 
avert the chances of the elements. 

During the few hours occupied in this impor- 
tant duty, Alida and her companion addressed ; 
themselves to God in long and fervent petitions, j 
With woman’s faith in that divine being who 
alone could avail them, and with woman’s high 
mental fortitude in moments of protracted trial, 
they had both known how to control the exhibi- 
tion of their terrors, and had sought their sup- . 
port in the same appeal to a power superior to all 
of earth. Ludlow was, therefore, more than re- 
warded by the sound of Alida’s voice, speaking to 
him cheerfully, as she thanked him for what he 
had done, when he had admitted that he could now 
do no more. 

“ The rest is with Providence ! ” added Alida. 

“ All that bold and skilful seamen can do have 
ye done ; and all that woman in such a situation 
can do, have we done in your behalf! ” 

“Thou hast thought of me in thy prayers, 
Alida ! It is an intercession that the stoutest 
needs, and which none but the fool derides.” 

“ And thou, Eudora ! thou hast remembered 
him who quiets the waters ! ” said a deep voice 
near the bending form of the counterfeit Seadrift. ! 

“I have.” 

“ ’Tis well. — There are points to which man- 
hood and experience may pass, and there are those 
where all is left to one mightier than the elements ! ” 

Words like these, coming from the lips of one 
of the known character of the “ Skimmer of the 
Seas,” were not given to the winds. Even Lud- 
low cast an uneasy look at the heavens, when 
they came upon his ear, as if they conveyed a se- 
cret notice of the whole extremity of the danger 
by which they were environed. None answered ; 
and a long silence succeeded, during which some 
of the more fatigued slumbered uneasily, spite of 
their fearful situation. 


DISAPPOINTED HOPE. 


175 


In this manner did the night pass in weari- 
ness and anxiety. Little was said, and for hours 
scarce a limb was moved, in the group that clus- 
tered around the mess-chest. As the signs of 
day appeared, however, every faculty was keenly 
awake to catch the first signs of what they had to 
hope, or the first certainty of what they had to fear. 

The surface of the ocean was still smooth, 
though the long swells in which the element was 
heaving and setting, sufficiently indicated that 
| the raft had floated far from the land. This fact 
was rendered sure when the light, which soon ap- 
peared along the eastern margin of the narrow 
view, was shed gradually over the whole horizon. 
Nothing was at first visible but one gloomy and 
vacant waste of water. But a cry of joy from 
| Seadrift, whose senses had long been practised in 
ocean-sights, soon drew all eyes in the direction 
opposite to that of the rising sun, and it was not 
long before all on the low raft had a view of the 
! snowy surfaces of a ship’s sails, as the glow of 
morning touched the canvas. 

“ It is the Frenchman I ” said the free-trader, 
j “ He is charitably looking for the wreck of his 
; late enemy ! ” 

“ It may be so, for our fate can be no secret 
to him,” was the answer of Ludlow. “ Unhappi- 
| ly, we had run some distance from the anchorage, 

! before the flames broke out. Truly, those with 
; whom we so lately struggled for life, are bent on 
a duty of humanity.” 

“Ah, yonder is his crippled consort ! — to lee- 
ward many a league. The gay bird has been too 
sadly stripped of its plumage to fly so near the 
wind ! This is man’s fortune ! He uses his pow- 
er, at one moment, to destroy the very means 
that become necessary to his safety the next.” 

“ And what think you of our hopes ? ” asked 
Alida, searching in the countenance of Ludlow a 
clew to their fate. “ Does the stranger move in a 
direction favorable to our wishes ?” 

Neither Ludlow nor the Skimmer replied. 
Both regarded the frigate intently ; then, as ob- 
jects became more distinct, both answered by a 
common impulse, that the ship was steering di- 
rectly toward them. The declaration excited 
general hope, and even the negress was no longer 
restrained by her situation from expressing her 
joy in vociferous exclamations of delight. 

A few minutes of active and ready exertion 
succeeded. A light boom was unlashed from the 
raft and raised on its end, supporting a little sig- 
nal, made of the handkerchiefs of the party, 
which fluttered in the light breeze at the eleva- 
tion of some twenty feet above the surface of the 
water. After this precaution was observed, they 


were obliged to await the result in such patience 
as they could assume. Minute passed after min- 
ute, and, at each moment, the form and propor- 
tions of the ship became more distinct, until all 
the mariners of the party declared they could dis- 
tinguish men on her yards. A cannon would 
have readily sent its shot from the ship to the 
raft, yet no sign betrayed the consciousness of 
those in the former of the proximity of the lat- 
ter. 

“ I do not like his manner of steering ! ” ob- 
served the Skimmer to the silent and attentive 
Ludlow. “He yaws broadly, as if disposed to 
give up the search. God grant him the heart to 
continue on his course ten minutes longer ! ” 

“ Have we no means of making ourselves 
heard?” demanded the alderman. “ Methinks 
the voice of a strong man might be sent thus far 
across the water when life is at stake.” 

The more experienced shook their heads ; but, 
not discouraged, the burgher raised his voice with 
a power that was sustained by the imminency of 
the peril. He was joined by the seamen, and 
even Ludlow lent his aid, until all were hoarse 
with the fruitless effort. Men were evidently 
aloft, and in some numbers, searching the ocean 
with their eyes, but still no answering signal 
came from the vessel. 

The ship continued to approach, and the raft 
was less than half a mile from her bows, when 
the vast fabric suddenly receded from the breeze, 
showed the whole of its glittering broadside, and, 
swinging its yards, betrayed by its new position 
that the search in that direction was abandoned. 
The instant Ludlow saw the filling-off of the frig- 
ate’s bows, he cried : 

“ Now raise your voices together ; this is the 
final chance ! ” 

They united in a common shout, with the ex- 
ception of the “Skimmer of the Seas.” The 
latter leaned against the top with folded arms, 
listening to their impotent efforts with a melan- 
choly smile. 

“ It is well attempted,” said the calm and ex- 
traordinary seaman when the clamor had ceased, 
advancing along the raft and motioning for all to 
be silent ; “ but it has failed. The swinging of 
the yards, and the orders given in wearing ship, 
would prevent a stronger sound from being audi- 
ble to men so actively employed. I flatter none 
with hope, but this is truly the moment for a final 
effort.” 

He placed his hands to his mouth, and, disre- 
garding words, he raised a cry so clear, so pow- 
erful, and yet so full, that it seemed impossible 
those in the vessel should not hear it. Thrice did 


176 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


he repeat the experiment, though it was evident 
that each successive exertion was feebler than 
the last. 

“ They hear ! ” cried Alida. “ There is a 
movement in the sails ! ” 

“ ’Tis the breeze freshening,” answered Lud- 
low, in sadness, at her side. “ Each moment takes 
them away ! ” 

The melancholy truth was too apparent for 
denial, and for half an hour the retiring ship was 
watched in the bitterness of disappointment. At 
the end of that time, she fired a gun, spread ad- 
ditional canvas on her wide booms and stood 
away before the wind, to join her consort, whose 
upper sails were already dipping to the surface 
of the sea, in the southern board. With this 
change in her movements, vanished all expecta- 
tion of succor from the cruiser of the enemy. 

Perhaps, in every situation of life, it is neces- 
sary that hope should be first lessened by dis- 
appointment, before the buoyancy of the human 
mind will permit it to descend to the level of an 
evil fortune. Until a frustrated effort teaches 
him the difficulty of the attempt, he who has fall- 
en may hope to rise again ; and it is only when 
an exertion has been made With lessened means, 
that we learn the value of advantages, which 
have perhaps been long enjoyed with a very un- 
due estimate of their importance. Until the 
stern of the French frigate was seen retiring from 
the raft, those who were on it had not been fully 
sensible of the extreme danger of their situation. 
Hope had been strongly excited by the return 
of dawn ; for, while the shadows of night lay on 
the ocean, their situation resembled that of one 
who strove to pierce the obscurity of the future, 
in order to obtain a presage of better fortunes. 
With the light had come the distant sail. As the 
day advanced, the ship had approached, relin- 
quished her search and disappeared, without a 
prospect of her return. 

The stoutest heart among the group on the 
raft began to sink at the gloomy fate which now 
seemed inevitable. 

“ Here is an evil omen ! ” whispered Ludlow, 
directing his companion’s eyes to the dark and 
pointed fins of three or four sharks, that were 
gliding above the surface of the water, and in so 
fearful a proximity to their persons as to render 
their situation on the low spars, over which the 
water was washing and retiring at each rise and 
fall of the waves, doubly dangerous. “ The creat- 
ures’ instinct speaks ill for our hopes ! ” 

“ There is a belief among seamen, that these 
animals feel a secret impulse, which directs them 
to their prey,” returned the Skimmer. “ But for- 


tune may yet balk them. — Rogerson ! ” calling to 
one of his followers ; “ thy pockets are rarely 
wanting in a fisherman’s tackle. Hast thou, 
haply, line and hook, for these hungry miscre- 
ants ? The question is getting narrowed to one 
in which the simplest philosophy is the wisest. 
When eat or to be eaten is the mooted point, 
most men will decide for the former.” 

A hook of sufficient size was soon produced, 
and a line was quietly provided from some of 
the small cordage that still remained about the 
masts. A piece of leather, torn from a spar, an- 
swered for the bait ; and the lure was thrown. 
Extreme hunger seemed to engross the voracious 
animals, who darted at the imaginary prey with 
the rapidity of lightning. The shock was so 
sudden and violent, that the hapless mariner was 
drawn from his slippery and precarious footing 
into the sea. The whole passed with a frightful 
and alarming rapidity. A common cry of horror 
was heard, and the last despairing glance of the 
fallen man was witnessed. The mutilated body 
floated for an instant in its blood, with the look 
of agony and terror still imprinted on the con- 
scious countenance. At the next moment, it had 
become food for the monsters of the sea. 

All had passed away, but the deep dye on the 
surface of the ocean. The gorged fish disap- 
peared : but the dark spot remained near the im- 
movable raft, as if placed there to warn the sur- 
vivors of their fate. 

“ This is horrible ! ” said Ludlow. 

“ A sail ! ” shouted the Skimmer, whose voice 
and tone, breaking in on that moment of intense 
horror and apprehension, sounded like a cry from 
the heavens. “ My gallant brigantine ! ” 

“ God grant she come with better fortune 
than those who have so lately left us ! ” 

“ God grant it truly ! If this hope fail, there 
is none left. Few pass here, and we have had 
sufficient proof that our top-gallants are not so 
lofty as to catch every eye.” 

All attention was now bestowed on the white 
speck which was visible on the margin of the 
ocean, and which the “ Skimmer of the Seas ” 
confidently pronounced to be the Water-Witch. 
None but a seaman could have felt this certainty ; 
for, seen from the low raft, there was little else 
to be distinguished but the heads of the upper 
sails. The direction, too, was unfavorable, as it 
was to leeward ; but both Ludlow and the free- 
trader assured their companions that the vessel 
was endeavoring to beat in with the land. 

The two hours that succeeded lingered like 
days of misery. So much depended on a variety 
of events, that every circumstance was noted by 


RESCUED BY THE BRIGANTINE. 


177 


the seamen of the party, with an interest border- 
ing on agony. A failure of the wind might compel 
the vessel to remain stationary, and then both 
brigantine and raft would be at the mercy of the 
uncertain currents of the ocean ; a change of 
wind might cause a change of course, and render 
a meeting impossible ; an increase of the breeze 
might cause destruction, even before the succor 
could come. In addition to these obvious haz- 
ards, there were all the chances which were 
dependent on the fact that the people of the 
brigantine had every reason to believe the fate 
of the party was already sealed. 

Still Fortune seemed propitious ; for the 
breeze, though steady, was light ; the intention of 
the vessel was evidently to pass somewhere near 
them, and the hope that their object was search 
so strong and plausible as to exhilarate every 
bosom. 

At the expiration of the time named, the brig- 
antine passed the raft to leeward and so near as 
to render the smaller objects in her rigging dis- 
tinctly visible. 

“ The faithful fellows are looking for us ! ” 
exclaimed the free-trader, with strong emotion in 
his voice. “ They are men to scour the coast, 
ere they abandon us ! ” 

“They pass us— wave the signal— it may 
catch their eyes ! ” 

The little flag was unheeded, and, after so 
long and so intense expectation, the party on the 
raft had the pain to see the swift-moving vessel 
glide past them, and drawing so far ahead as to 
leave little hope of her return. The heart of even 
the “ Skimmer of the Seas ” appeared to sink 
within him at the disappointment. 

“ For myself, I care not,” said the stout mari- 
ner, mournfully. “ Of what consequence is it, in 
what sea, or on what voyage, a seaman goes into his 
watery tomb ? — but for thee, my hapless and play- 
ful Eudora, I could wish another fate — ha ! — she 
tacks ! — the sea-green lady has an instinct for her 
children, after all ! ” 

The brigantine was in stays. — In ten or fifteen 
minutes more the vessel was again abeam of the 
raft, and to windward. 

“If she pass us now, our chance is gone, 
without a shadow of hope,” said the Skimmer, 
motioning solemnly for silence. Then applying 
his hands to his mouth, he shouted, as if despair 
lent a giant’s volume to his lungs : 

“ Ho ! The Water-Witch ahoy ! ” 

The last word issued from his lips with the 
clear, audible cry, that the peculiar sound is in- 
tended to produce. It appeared as if the con- 
scious little bark knew its commander’s voice ; 

12 


for its course changed slightly, as if the fabric 
were possessed of the consciousness and faculties 
of life. 

“ Ho ! The Water-Witch — ahoy ! ” shouted 
the Skimmer, with a still mightier effort. 

“ Hilloa ! ” came down faintly on the breeze, 
and the direction of the brigantine again altered. 

“The Water-Witch !— the Water-Witch!— 
ahoy ! ” broke out of the lips of the mariner of 
the shawl, with a supernatural force, the last cry 
being drawn out till he who uttered it sank back 
exhausted with the effort. 

The words were still ringing in the ears of the 
breathless party on the raft, when a heavy shout 
swept across the water. At the next moment the 
boom of the brigantine swung off, and her narrow 
bows were seen pointing toward the little beacon 
of white that played above the sea. It was but 
a moment, but it was a moment pregnant with a 
thousand hopes and fears, before the beautiful craft 
was gliding within fifty feet of the top. In less than 
five minutes, the spars of the Coquette were floating 
on the wide ocean, unpeopled and abandoned. 

The first sensation of the “ Skimmer of the 
Seas,” when his foot touched the deck of his 
brigantine, might have been one of deep and in- 
tense gratitude. He was silent, and seemingly 
oppressed at the throat. Stepping along the 
planks, he cast an eye aloft, and struck his hand 
powerfully on the capstan, in a manner that was 
divided between convulsion and affection. Then 
he smiled grimly on his attentive and obedient 
crew, speaking with his wonted cheerfulness and 
authority : 

“ Fill away the topsail — brace up and haul 
aft! Trim every thing flat as boards, boys — 
jam the dear huzzy in with the coast ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation ? ” 

Winter’s Tale. 

On the following morning the windows of the 
Lust in Rust denoted the presence of its owner. 
There was an air of melancholy, yet of happiness, 
in the faces of many who were seen about the 
buildings and the grounds, as if a great good had 
been accompanied by some grave and qualifying 
circumstances of sorrow. The negroes wore an 
air of that love of the extraordinary, which is the 
concomitant of ignorance, while those of the more 
fortunate class resembled men who retained a 
recollection of serious evils that were past. 

In the private apartment of the burgher, how- 


173 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


ever, an interview took place which was charac- 
terized by an air of deep concern. The parties 
were only the free-trader and the alderman. But 
it was apparent, in the look of each, that they 
met like men who had interesting and serious 
matters to discuss. Still, one accustomed to the 
expressions of the human countenance might have 
seen that, while the former was about to intro- 
duce topics in which his feelings were powerfully 
enlisted, the other looked only to the grosser inter- 
ests of his commerce. 

“ My minutes are counted,” said the mariner, 
stepping into the centre of the room, and facing 
his companion. “ That which is to be said must 
be said briefly. The inlet can only be passed on 
the rising water, and it will ill consult your opin- 
ions of prudence were I to tarry, till the hue and 
cry that will follow the intelligence of that which 
has lately happened in the offing, shall be heard 
in the province.” 

“Spoken with a rover’s discretion ! This re- 
serve will perpetuate friendship, which is naught 
weakened by your activity in our late uncomfort- 
able voyage on the yards and masts of Queen 
Anne’s late cruiser. Well ! I wish no ill-luck to 
any loyal gentleman in her majesty’s service ; but 
it is a thousand pities that thou wert not ready, 
now the coast is clear, with a good heavy inward 
cargo ! The last was altogether an affair of se- 
cret drawers and rich laces ; valuable in itself, 
and profitable in the exchange : but the colony 
is sadly in want of certain articles that can only 
be landed at leisure.” 

“ I come on other matters. There have been 
transactions between us, Alderman Yan Beverout, 
that you little understand.” 

“ You speak of a small mistake in the last in- 
voice ? ’Tis all explained, Master Skimmer, on 
a second examination; and thy accuracy is as 
well established as that of the Bank of Eng- 
land.” 

“ Established or not, let him who doubts cease 
to deal. I have no other motto than * confidence,’ 
nor any other rule but ‘justice.’ ” 

“You overrun my meaning, friend of mine. 
I intimate no suspicions; but accuracy is the 
soul of commerce, as profit is its object. Clear 
accounts, with reasonable balances, are the surest 
cements of business intimacies. A little frank- 
ness operates, in a secret trade, like equity in the 
courts ; which reestablishes the justice that the 
law has destroyed. — What is thy purpose ? ” 

“ It is now many years, Alderman Yan Bever- 
out, since this secret trade was commenced be- 
tween you and my predecessor, he, whom you have 
thought my father, but who only claimed that 


revered appellation by protecting the helplessness 
and infancy of the orphan child of a friend.” 

“ The latter circumstance is new to me,” re- 
turned the burgher, slowly bowing his head. “ It 
may explain certain levities which have not been 
without their embarrassment. ’Tisfive-and-twen- 
ty years, come August, Master Skimmer, and 
twelve of them have been under thy auspices. I 
will not say that the adventures might not have 
been better managed ; as it is, they are tolerable. 

I am getting old, and think of closing the risks 
and hazards of life — two or three, or, at the most, 
four or five lucky voyages, must, I think, bring a 
final settlement between us.” 

“ ’Twill be made sooner. I believe the his- 
tory of my predecessor was no secret to you. 
The manner in which he was driven from the 
marine of the Stuarts, on account of his opposi- 
tion to tyranny ; his refuge with an only daugh- 
ter, in the colonies ; and his final recourse to the 
free-trade for a livelihood, have often been alluded 
to between us.” 

“ Hum — I have a good memory for business, 
Master Skimmer, but I am as forgetful as a new- 
made lord of his pedigree, on all matters that 
should be overlooked. I dare say, however, it 
was as you have stated.” 

“ You know that, when my protector and 
predecessor abandoned the land, he took his all 
with him upon the water.” 

“ He took a wholesome and good-going schoon- 
er, Master Skimmer, with an assorted freight of 
chosen tobacco, well ballasted with stones from off 
the sea-shore. He was no foolish admirer of sea- 
green women and flaunting brigantines. Often 
did the royal cruisers mistake the worthy dealer 
for an industrious fisherman ! ” 

“ He had his humors, and I have mine. But 
you forget a part of the freight he carried--— a 
part that was not the least valuable.” 

“ There might have been a bale of marten’s 
furs — for the trade was just getting brisk in that 
article.” v 

“ There was a beautiful, an innocent, and an 
affectionate girl — ” 

The alderman made an involuntary movement 
which nearly hid his countenance from his com- 
panion. 

“ There was, indeed, a beautiful, and, as you 
say, a most warm-hearted girl, in the concern ! Hi 
he uttered in a voice that was subdued and hoarse. 
“ She died, as I have heard from thyself, Master 
Skimmer, in the Italian seas. I never saw the 
father after the last visit of his child to this ' 
coast.” 

“ She did die among the islands of the Med- 


179 


A RIGHTEOUS 

iterranean. But the void she left in the hearts 
of all who knew her, was filled in time by her— 
daughter.” 

The alderman started from his chair, and, 
looking the free-trader intently and anxiously in 
the face, he slowly repeated the word— 

“ Daughter ! ” 

I have said it. Eudora is the daughter of 
that injured woman— need I say who is the fa- 
ther ? ” 

The burgher groaned, and, covering his face 
with his hands, he sank back into his chair, shiv- 
I ering convulsively. 

“What evidence have I for this?” he at 
length muttered — “ Eudora is thy sister ! ” 

The answer of the free-trader was accompa- 
nied by a melancholy smile. 

“ You have been deceived. Save the brigan- 
tine, my being is attached to nothing. When 
my own brave father fell by the side of him who 
! protected my youth, none of my blood were left. 

I loved him as a father, and he called me son, 
while Eudora was passed upon you as the child 
of a second marriage. But here is sufficient evi- 
dence of her birth.” 

The alderman took a paper, which his com- 
panion put gravely into his hand, and his eyes 
ran eagerly over its contents. It was a letter to 
himself from the mother of Eudora, written after 
! the birth of the latter, and with the endearing af- 
fection of a woman. The love between the young 
merchant and the fair daughter of his secret cor- 
respondent had been less criminal on his part 
than most similar connections. Nothing but the 
peculiarity of their situation, and the real embar- 
rassment of introducing to the world one whose 
existence was unknown to his friends, and their 
[ mutual awe of the unfortunate but still proud 
I parent, had prevented a legal marriage. The sim- 
ple forms of the colony were easily satisfied, and 
I there was even some reason to raise a question 
' whether they had not been sufficiently consulted 
l to render the offspring legitimate. As Myndert 
[ Yan Beverout, therefore, read the epistle of her 
whom he had once so truly loved, and whose loss 
had, in more senses than one, been to him an ir- 
reparable misfortune, since his character might 
have yielded to her gentle and healthful influence, 
his limbs trembled, and his whole frame betrayed 
the violence of extreme agitation. The language 
of the dying woman was kind and free from re- 
proach, but it was solemn and admonitory. She 
communicated the birth of their child; but she 
left it to the disposition of her own father, while 
she apprised the author of its being of its exist- 
ence ; and, in the event of its ever being consigned j 


RETRIBUTION. 

to his care, she earnestly recommended it to his 
love. The close was a leave-taking, in which the 
lingering affections of this life were placed in 
mournful contrast to the hopes of the future. 

“ Why has this so long been hidden from me ? ” 
demanded the agitated merchant — “ why, 0 reck- 
less and fearless man ! have I been permitted to 
expose the frailties of nature to my own child ? ” 

The smile of the free-trader was bitter and 
proud. 

“ Mr - Yan Beverout, we are no dealers of the 
short voyage. Our trade is the concern of life ; 
our world, the W ater-Witch. As we have so little 
of the interests of the land, our philosophy is 
above its weaknesses. The birth of Eudora was 
concealed from you, at the will of her grandfather. 
It might have been resentment — it might have 
been pride. Had it been affection, the girl has 
that to justify the fraud.” 

“And Eudora, herself ?— Does she— or has 
she long known the truth ? ” 

“ But lately. Since the death of our common 
friend, the girl has been solely dependent on me 
for counsel and protection. It is now a year since 
she first learned she was not my sister. Until 
then, like you, she supposed us equally derived 
from one who was the parent of neither. Necessity 
has compelled me, of late, to keep her much in 
the brigantine.” 

“ The retribution is righteous ! ” groaned the 
alderman. “ I am punished for my pusillanimity 
in the degradation of my own child ! ” 

The step of the free-trader, as he advanced 
nearer to his companion, was full of dignity ; and 
his keen eye glowed with the resentment of an of- 
fended man. 

“ Alderman Yan Beverout,” he said, with 
stern rebuke in his voice, “ you receive your 
daughter, stainless as was her unfortunate moth- 
er, when necessity compelled him whose being 
was wrapped up in hers, to trust her beneath 
your roof. We of the contraband have our own 
opinions of right and wrong ; and my gratitude, 
no less than my principles, teaches me that the 
descendant of my benefactor is to be protected, 
not injured. Had I, in truth, been the brother 
of Eudora, language and conduct more innocent 
could not have been shown her, than that she 
has both heard and witnessed while guarded by 
my care.” 

“From my soul, I thank thee!” burst from 
the lips of the alderman. “ The girl shall be ac- 
knowledged ; and, with such a dowry as I can give, 
she may yet hope for a suitable and honorable 
marriage.” 

“Thou mayst bestow her on thy favorite pa- 


180 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


troon,” returned the Skimmer, with a calm but 
sad eye. “ She is more than worthy of all he can 
return.' The man is willing to take her, for he 
is not ignorant of her sex and history. That 
much I thought due to Eudora herself, when for- 
tune placed the young man in my power.” 

“ Thou art only too honest for this wicked 
world, Master Skimmer ! Let me see the loving 
pair, and bestow my blessing on the instant ! ” 

The free-trader turned slowly away, and, open- 
ing a door, he motioned for those within to enter. 
Alida instantly appeared, leading the counterfeit 
Seadrift, clad in the proper attire of her sex. 
Although the burgher had often seen the supposed 
sister of the Skimmer in her female habiliments, 
she never before had struck him as a being of so 
rare beauty as at that moment. The silken whis- 
kers had been removed, and in their places were 
burning cheeks, that were rather enriched than 
discolored by the warm touches of the sun. The 
dark glossy ringlets, that were no longer artfully 
converted to the purposes of the masquerade, fell 
naturally in curls about the temples and brows, 
shading a countenance which in general was play- 
fully arch, though at that moment it was shadowed 
by reflection and feeling. It is seldom that two 
such beings are seen together as those who now 
knelt at the feet of the merchant. In the breast 
of the latter, the accustomed and lasting love of 
the uncle and protector appeared, for an instant, 
to struggle with the new-born affection of a par- 
ent. Nature was too strong for even his blunted 
and perverted sentiments ; and, calling his child 
aloud by name, the selfish and calculating aider- 
man sank upon the neck of Eudora, and wept. 
It would have been difficult to trace the emotions 
of the stern but observant free-trader, as he 
watched the progress of this scene. Distrust, un- 
easiness, and, finally, melancholy, were in his eye. 
With the latter expression predominant, he quit- 
ted the room, like one who felt a stranger had no 
right to witness emotions so sacred. 

Two hours later, and the principal personages 
of the narrative were assembled on the margin of 
the cove, beneath the shade of an oak that 
seemed coeval with the continent. The brigan- 
tine was aweigh ; and, under a light show of 
canvas, she was making easy stretches in the lit- 
tle basin, resembling, by the ease and grace of 
her movements, some beautiful swan sailing up 
and down in the enjoyment of its instinct. A 
boat had just touched the shore, and the “ Skim- 
mer of the Seas” stood near, stretching out a 
hand to aid the boy Zephyr to land. 

“We subjects of the elements are slaves to 
superstition,” he said, when the light foot of the 


child touched the ground. “ It is the consequence 
of lives which ceaselessly present dangers supe- 
rior to our powers. For many years have I be- 
lieved that some great good, or some greater evil, 
would accompany the first visit of this boy to the 
land. For the first time, his foot now stands 
on solid earth. I await the fulfilment of the 
augury ! ” 

“ It will be happy,” returned Ludlow. “ Alida 
and Eudora will instruct him in the opinions of 
this simple and fortunate country, and he seemeth 
one likely to do early credit to his schooling.” 

“ I fear the boy will regret the lessons of the 
sea-green lady ! — Captain Ludlow, there is yet a 
duty to perform, which, as a man of more feeling 
than you may be disposed to acknowledge, I can- 
not neglect. I have understood that you are ac- 
cepted by la belle Barberie ? ” 

“ Such is my happiness.” 

“Sir, in dispensing with explanation of the 
past you have shown a noble confidence, that 
merits a return. When I came upon this coast, 
it was with a determination of establishing the 
claims of Eudora to the protection and fortune 
of her father. If I distrusted the influence and 
hostility of one so placed, and so gifted to per- 
suade, as this lady, you will remember it was be- 
fore acquaintance had enabled me to estimate 
more than her beauty. She was seized in her 
pavilion by my agency, and transported as a cap- 
tive to the brigantine.” 

“ I had believed her acquainted with the his- 
tory of her cousin, and willing to aid in some 
fantasy which was to lead to the present happy 
restoration of the latter to her natural friends.” 

“You did her disinterestedness no more than 
justice. As some atonement for the personal 
wrong, and as the speediest and surest means of 
appeasing her alarm, I made my captive ac- 
quainted with the facts. Eudora then heard, also 
for the first time, the history of her origin. The 
evidence was irresistible, and we found a gener- 
ous and devoted friend where we had expected 
a rival.” 

“ I knew that Alida could not prove less gen- 
erous ! ” cried the admiring Ludlow, raising the 
hand of the blushing girl to his lips. “ The loss 
of fortune is a gain, by showing her true charac- 
ter! ” 

“ Hist ! — hist — ” interrupted the alderman — 
“ there is little need to proclaim a loss of any 
kind. What must be done in the way of natural 
justice, will doubtless be submitted to ; but why 
let all in the colony know how much or how little 
is given with a bride ? ” 

“ The loss of fortune will be amply met,” re- 


181 


EUDORA AND THE SMUGGLER. 


turned the free-trader. “These bags contain 
gold. The dowry of my charge is ready at a mo- 
ment’s warning, whenever she shall make known 
her choice.” 

“ Success and prudence ! ” exclaimed the 
burgher. “ There is no less than a most com- 
mendable forethought in thy provision, Master 
Skimmer ; and, whatever may be the opinion of 
the Exchequer Judges of thy punctuality and 
credit, it is mine that there are less responsible 
men about the Bank of England itself! — This 
money is, no doubt, that which the girl can law- 
fully claim in right of her late grandfather ! ” 

“ It is.” 

“I take this to be a favorable moment to 
speak plainly on a subject which is very near my 
heart, and which may as well be broached under 
such favorable auspices as under any other. I 
understand, Mr. Van Staats, that, on a further 
examination of your sentiments toward an old 
friend, you are of opinion that a closer alliance 
than the one we had contemplated will most con- 
duce to your happiness ? ” 

“ I will acknowledge that the coldness of la 
belle Barberie has damped my own warmth,” re- 
turned the Patroon of Kinderhook, who rarely 
delivered himself of more, at a time, than the 
occasion required. 

“And, furthermore, I have been told, sir, 
that an intimacy of a fortnight has given you 
reason to fix your affections on my daughter, 
whose beauty is hereditary, and whose fortune is 
not likely to be diminished by this act of justice 
on the part of that upright and gallant mariner.” 

“ To be received into the favor of your family, 
Mr. Van Beverout, would leave me little to desire 
in this life.” 

“ And as for the other world, I never heard 
of a Patroon of Kinderhook who did not leave us 
with comfortable hopes for the future ; as in rea- 
son they should, since few families in the colony 
have done more for the support of religion than 
they. They gave largely to the Dutch churches 
in Manhattan; have actually built, with their 
own means, three very pretty brick edifices on 
the manor, each having its Flemish steeple and 
suitable weathercocks, besides having done some- 
thing handsome toward the venerable structure 
in Albany. — Eudora, my child, this gentleman is 
a particular friend, and as such I can presume to 
recommend him to thy favor. You are not abso- 
lutely strangers ; but, in order that you may 
have every occasion to decide impartially, you 
will remain here together for a month longer, 
which will enable you to choose without distrac- 
tion and confusion. More than this, for the 


present, it is unnecessary to say ; for it is my 
practice to leave all matters of this magnitude 
entirely to Providence.” 

The daughter, on whose speaking face the 
color went and came, like lights changing in an 
Italian sky, continued silent. 

“You have happily put aside the curtain 
which concealed a mystery that no longer gave 
me uneasiness,” interrupted Ludlow, addressing 
the free-trader. “ Can you do more, and say 
whence came this letter ? ” 

The dark eye of Eudora instantly lighted. 
She looked at the “ Skimmer of the Seas,” and 
laughed. 

“ ’Twas another of those womanly artifices 
which have been practised in my brigantine. It 
was thought that a young commander of a royal 
cruiser would be less apt to watch our move- 
ments, were his mind bent on the discovery of 
such a correspondent.” 

“ And the trick has been practised before ? ” 

“ I confess it. — But I can linger no longer. 
In a few minutes the tide will turn, and the inlet 
become impassable. Eudora, we must decide on 
the fortunes of this child. Shall he to the ocean 
again ? — or shall he remain, to vary his life with 
a landsman’s chances ? ” 

“ Who and what is the boy ? ” gravely de- 
manded the alderman. 

“ One dear to both,” rejoined the free-trader. 
“His father was my nearest friend, and his 
mother long watched the youth of Eudora. Un- 
til this moment, he has been our mutual care — 
he must now choose between us.” 

“ He will not quit me ! ” hastily interrupted 
the alarmed Eudora.— “ Thou art my adopted 
son, and none can guide thy young mind like me. 
Thou hast need of woman’a tenderness, Zephyr, 
and wilt not quit me ? ” 

“ Let the child be the arbiter of his own 
fate. I am credulous on the point of fortune, 
which is, at least, a happy belief for the contra- 
band.” 

“Then let him speak. Wilt remain here, 
amid these smiling fields, to ramble among yon- 
der gay and sweetly-scented flowers? — or wilt 
thou back to the water, where all is vacant and 
without change ? ” 

The boy looked wistfully into her anxious eye, 
then he bent his own hesitating glance on the 
calm features of the free-trader. 

“ We can put to sea,” he said ; “ and when 
we make the homeward passage again, there will 
be many curious things for thee, Eudora ! ” 


‘ But this may be the last opportunity to 
I know the land of thy ancestors. Remember how 


182 


THE WATER-WITCH. 


terrible is the ocean in its anger, and how often 
the brigantine has been in danger of shipwreck !” 

“ Nay, that is womanish ! — I have been on 
the royal-yard in the squalls, and it never seemed 
to me that there was danger.” 

“ Thou hast the unconsciousness and reliance 
of a ship-boy ! But those who are older, know 
that the life of a sailor is one of constant and 
imminent hazard. Thou hast been among the 
islands in the hurricane, and hast seen the power 
of the elements ! ” 

“ I was in the hurricane, and so was the 
brigantine ; and there you see how taut and neat 
she is aloft, as if nothing had happened ! ” 

“ And you saw us yesterday floating on the 
open sea, while a few ill-fastened spars kept us 
from going into its depths ! ” 

“ The spars floated, and you were not 
drowned ; else I should have wept bitterly, Eu- 
dora.” 

“ But thou wilt go deeper into the country, 
and see more of its beauties — its rivers and its 
mountains — its caverns and its woods. Here all 
is change, while the water is ever the same.” 

“ Surely, Eudora, you forget strangely ! — Here 
it is all America. This mountain is America ; 
yonder land across the bay is America, and the 
anchorage of yesterday was America. When we 
shall run off the coast, the next land-fall will 
be England, or Holland, or Africa ; and, with a 
good wind, we may run down the shores of two 
or three countries in a day.” 

“ And on them, too, thoughtless boy ! If you 
lose this occasion, thy life will be wedded to haz- 
ard ! ” 

“ Farewell, Eudora ! ” said the urchin, raising 
his mouth to give and receive the parting kiss. 

“ Eudora, adieu ! ” added a deep and melan- 
choly voice, at her elbow. “ I can delay no lon- 
ger, for my people show symptoms of impatience. 
Should this be the last of my voyages to the 
coast, thou wilt not forget those with whom thou 
hast so long shared good and evil ! ” 

“Not yet — not yet — you will not quit us yet ! 
Leave me the boy — leave me some other memorial 
of the past, besides this pain ! ” 

“ My hour has come. The wind is freshening, 
and I trifle with its favor. ’Twill be better for 
thy happiness that none know the history of the 
brigantine ; a few hours will draw a hundred 
curious eyes from the town upon us.” 

“ What care I for their opinions ? — thou wilt 
not — cannot — leave me yet ! ” 

“ Gladly would I stay, Eudora, but a seaman’s 
home is his ship. Too much precious time is al- 
ready wasted. Once more, adieu ! ” 


The dark eye of the girl glanced wildly about 
her. It seemed as if, in that one quick and hur- 
ried look, it drank in all that belonged to the 
land and its enjoyments. 

“ Whither go you ? ” she asked, scarce suffer- 
ing her voice to rise above a whisper. “ Whither 
do you sail, and when do you return? ” 

“ I follow Fortune. My return may be dis- 
tant — never ! — Adieu then, Eudora — be happy 
with the friends that Providence hath given 
thee t ” 

The wandering eyes of the girl of the sea be- 
came still more unsettled. She grasped the of- 
fered hand of the free-trader in both her own, 
and wrung it in an impassioned and unconscious 
manner. Then, releasing her hold, she opened 
wide her arms, and cast them convulsively about 
his unmoved and unyielding form. 

“We will go together ! — I am thine, and thine 
only ! ” 

“ Thou knowest not what thou sayest, Eu- 
dora ! ” gasped the Skimmer. “ Thou hast a 
father — friend — husband — ” 

“Away, away !” cried the frantic girl, waving 
her hand wildly toward Alida and the patroon, 
who advanced as if hurrying to rescue her from 
a precipice. — “ Thine, and thine only ! ” 

The smuggler released himself from her fren- 
zied grasp, and, with the strength of a giant, he 
held the struggling girl at the length of his arm, 
while he endeavored to control the tempest of 
passion that struggled within him. 

“ Think, for one moment, think ! ” he said. 
“ Thou wouldst follow an outcast — an outlaw — 
one hunted and condemned of men ! ” 

“ Thine, and thine only ! ” 

“ With a ship for a dwelling — the tempestu- 
ous ocean for a world ! ” 

“ Thy world is my world ! — thy home my home 
— thy danger, mine ! ” 

The shout which burst out of the chest of the 
“ Skimmer of the Seas ” was one of uncontrollable 
exultation. 

“Thou art mine!” he cried. “Before a tie 
like this, the claim of such a father is forgotten ! 
Burgher, adieu ! — I will deal by thy daughter more 
honestly than thou didst deal by my benefactor’s 
child!” 

Eudora was lifted from the ground as if her 
weight had been that of a feather ; and, spite of 
a sudden and impetuous movement of Ludlow 
and the patroon, she was borne to the boat. In 
a moment the bark was afloat, with the gallant 
boy tossing his sea-cap upward in triumph. The 
brigantine, as if conscious of what had passed, 
wore round like a whirling chariot ; and ere the 


THE LAST VOYAGE. 



spectators had recovered from their confusion and 
wonder, the boat was hanging at the tackles. 
The free-trader was seen on the poop, with an arm 
cast about the form of Eudora, having a hand to 
the motionless group on the shore, while the still 
half-unconscious girl of the ocean signed her faint 
adieus to Alida and her father. The vessel glided 
through the inlet, and was immediately rocking 
on the billows of the surf. Then, taking the full 
weight of the southern breeze, the fine and atten- 
uated spars bent to its force, and the progress of 
the swift-moving craft was apparent by the bub- 
bling line of its wake. 

The day had begun to decline, before Alida 
and Ludlow quitted the lawn of the Lust in Rust. 
For the first hour, the dark hull of the brigantine 
was seen supporting the moving cloud of canvas. 
Then the low structure vanished, and sail after 
sail settled into the water, until nothing was visi- 


183 

ble but a speck of glittering white. It lingered 
for a minute, and was swallowed in the void. 

The nuptials of Ludlow and Alida were 
touched with a shade of melancholy. Natural 
affection in one, and professional sympathy in 
the other, had given them a deep and lasting in- 
terest in the fate of the adventurers. 

Years passed away, and months were spent at 
the villa, in which a thousand anxious looks were 
cast upon the ocean. Each morning during the 
early months of summer did Alida hasten to the 
windows of her pavilion, in the hope of seeing the 
vessel of the contraband anchored in the cove ; 
but always without success. It never returned ; 
and, though the rebuked and disappointed aider- 
man caused many secret inquiries to be made 
along the whole extent of the American coast, he 
never again heard of the renowned “ Skimmer of 
the Seas,” or of his matchless Water -Witch. 


THE END. 






rr : ■ - ' ■ ' 1 ' -V . , ... . . 

' 

H ffekr ' i* :i< xi> j r:.‘i : ... : ' 



f ' ■:? "£t\: ; . 1 ai 3 " ■ % -t. 


* tix > ' ' V . ‘ £ ;., 5 ' ■ v. , !• ;■ >. • ,v 0 


■ ■ ■■ 1 ■ '• . , '• ■" -.7 

■ •• ; .vy-- -;\. v } 

m - - : m M / f.MV gfr : - • - ‘.v,-.; : .,*J 
; '} ■>? 




r ■ ■xx-ry-:.. * 


•J'JXI T ;"- ::.T.vVr , ;c\ s 't tiiSiv • ■ .? 



Anthony Trollope’s Works. 


the most 1 prolific°ofw-iters S vet ^ ^ r °' VS . mo . re secure with every new work which comes from his pen. He Is one of 
as forcible as though it wer^the soil th^'tlr.-^L” "" !al ‘ er ’ ^ “* “ “ ““ 

passc^St^ His side-thrusts at some of the lies which 


BROWN, JONES, AND ROBINSON. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents 

CAN YOU FORGIVE HER? Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00 ; Paper, $1 50. 

CASTLE RICHMOND. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

DOCTOR THORNE. i2mo, Cloth, $i 50. 

FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. Illustrations. i 2 mo, Cloth, $1 75. 

HARRY HEATHCOTE OF GANGOIL. Illustrations. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents. 

HE KNEW HE WAS RIGHT. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper, $1 00. 

LADY ANNA. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

MISS MACKENZIE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

NORTH AMERICA. i 2 mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

ORLEY FARM. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00; Paper, $1 50. 

PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $1 7 k - 
Paper, $1 25. iD> 

PHINEAS REDUX. Illustrations. 8vo, Paper, $1 25 ; Cloth, $1 75. 

RACHEL RAY. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

RALPH THE HEIR. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $1 75; Paper, $1 25. 

SIR HARRY HOTSPUR OF HUM BLETH WAITE. Illustrations. 8vo 
Paper, 50 cents. 

THE BELTON ESTATE. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

THE BERTRAMS. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

THE CLAVERINGS. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $1 00; Paper, 50 cents. 

THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS. 8vo, Cloth, $1 75; Paper, $1 25. 

THE GOLDEN LION OF GRANPERE. Illustrations. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents • 
Cloth, $1 25. 

THE LAST CHRONICLE OF BARSET. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00. 
Paper, $1 50. 

THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $2 00. 
Paper, $1 50. 

THE THREE CLERKS. i 2 mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

THE VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON. Illustrations. 8vo, Cloth, $1 75 • 
Paper, $1 25. 

THE WARDEN AND BARCHESTER TOWERS. Complete in One Vol- 
ume. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

WEST INDIES AND THE SPANISH MAIN. i 2 mo, Cloth, $1 50. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Sent by mail , postage prepaid \ to any part of the United States , on receipt of the price. 


GEORGE ELIOT’S NOVELS 

The Only Complete American Edition . 


MIDDLEMARCH. Two Volumes, nmo, Cloth, $3 50. 

Cheap Edition, 8vo, Paper, $1 50 ; Cloth, $2 00. 

ADAM BEDE. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

FELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL. Illustrated. i 2 mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

Cheap Edition, 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

Cheap Edition, 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 

ROMOLA. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

8 vo, Paper, $1 50 ; Cloth, $ 2 00. 

SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE, and SILAS MARNER, THE WEAVER 
OF RAVELOE. Illustrated, nmo, Cloth, $1 00. 


London Review. 

It was once said of a very charming and high- 
minded woman that to know her was in itself a 
liberal education ; and we are inclined to set an 
almost equally high value on an acquaintance 
with the writings of “George Eliot.” For those 
who read them aright they possess the faculty 
of educating in its highest sense, of invigorating 
the intellect, giving a healthy tone to the taste, 
appealing to the nobler feelings of the heart, 
training its impulses aright, and awakening or 
developing in every mind the consciousness of 
a craving for something higher than the pleas- 
ures and rewards of that life which only the 
senses realize, the belief in a destiny of a nobler 
nature than can be grasped by experience or 
demonstrated by argument. In reading them, 
we seem to be raised above the low grounds 
where the atmosphere is heavy and tainted, and 
the sunlight has to struggle through blinding 
veils of mist, and to be set upon the higher 
ranges where the air is fresh and bracing, where 
the sky is bright and clear, and where earth seems 
of less account than before and heaven more 
near at home. And as, by those who really feel 
the grandeur of mountain solitudes, a voice is 
heard speaking to the heart, which hushes the 
whispers in which vanity, and meanness, and 
self-interest are wont to make their petty sug- 
gestions, and as for them the paltry purposes of 
a brief and fitful life lose their significance in the 
presence of the mighty types of steadfastness and 
eternity by which they are surrounded, so, on 
those readers who are able to appreciate a lofty 
independence of thought, a rare nobility of feel- 
ing, and an exquisite sympathy with the joys and 
sorrows of human nature, “ George Eliot’s ” 
writings can not fail to exert an invigorating and 
purifying influence, the good effects of which 
leave behind it a lasting impression. 

Boston Transcript. 

Few women — no living woman indeed — have 
so much strength as “ George Eliot,” and, more 


than that, she never allows it to degenerate into 
coarseness. With all her so-called “masculine” 
vigor, she has a feminine tenderness, which is 
nowhere shown more plainly than in her de- 
scriptions of children. 

Saturday Review. 

She looks out upon the world with the most 
entire enjoyment of all the good that there is in 
it to enjoy, and an enlarged compassion for all 
the ill that there is in it to pity. But she never 
either whimpers over the sorrowful lot of man, 
or snarls and chuckles over his follies and little- 
nesses and impotence. 

Macmillan's Magazine. 

In « George Eliot’s ” books the effect is pro- 
duced by the most delicate strokes and the nicest 
proportions. In her pictures men and women 
fill the foreground, while thin lines and faint color 
show us the portentous clouds of fortune or cir- 
cumstance looming in the dim distance behind 
them and over their heads. She does not paint 
the world as a huge mountain, with pigmies crawl- 
ing or scrambling up its rugged sides to inac- 
cessible peaks, and only tearing their flesh more 
or less for their pains. * * * Each and all of 
“George Eliot’s ” novels abound in reflections 
that beckon on the alert reader into pleasant 
paths and fruitful fields of thought. 

Spectator. 

“ George Eliot ” has Sir Walter Scott’s art 
for revivifying the past. You plunge into it with 
as headlong an interest as into the present. For 
this she compensates by a wider and deeper in- 
tellectual grasp. 

Examiner. 

George Eliot’s” novels belong to the endur- 
ing literature of our country— durable, not for 
the fashionableness of its pattern, but for the 
texture of its stuff. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 


Harper & Brothers mill send either of the above boohs by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the 
United States , on receipt of the price. 





I 










N 






















































1 , 




* 






4 










r 
























TOTS WAS IN HER LAP.” — [SEE PAGE 146 .] 







& Noud. 



^“LITTLE KATE KIRBY,” “FOR HER SAKE,” “POOR HUMANITY,” “HEk FACE WAS 
HER FORTUNE,” “CARRY’S CONFESSION,” &c., &c. 


ILLUSTRATED. 






NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

1874. 


F. W. ROBINSON’S NOVELS. 


A Bridge of Glass. ------ 8vo, Paper, $o 50 

A Girl’s Romance, and other Stories. 8vo, Paper, 50 
Carry’s Confession. ----- 8vo, Paper, 75 

Christie’s Faith. nmo, Cloth, 1 75 

For Her Sake. Illustrated. - - - 8vo, Paper, 75 

Her Face Was Her Fortune. - - 8vo, Paper, 50 

Little Kate Kirby. Illustrations. 8vo, Paper, 75 


Mattie: a Stray. - * 

- - - - 8vo, Paper, $ o . j $ 

No Man’s Friend. - ■ 


75 

Poor Humanity. - - - 


50 

Second-Cousin Sarah. 

Illustrated. Svo, Paper, 

75 

Stern Necessity. - ■ 

. - - - - 8vo, Paper, 

50 

True to Herself. 


50 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Sent by mail \ postage prepaid , to any part of the United States, on receipt of the price. 





TO 

CHARLES COLLAMBELL, Esq., J.P., M.R.C.S.E., &c., 


In (grateful B^ntcntbranre 

OF 


MUCH KINDNESS AND SYMPATHY. 


. ' ■ " • ' . . : > ' - ' 

J. 

. 

v 



































































J 










' 

— -I « 

, 
















•V 




* 


Ji 






V 







. 

vr- • . ... * 

,, 

■ id 

































/ 

























t 




















m. « 






















i 



















... . ■ . . ■ ' 






SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 

' • 


BOOK THE FIRST. — REUBEN CULWICK. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE LAD WHO HELPED WITH THE LUGGAGE. 

It was wintry weather down in Worcester- 
shire, though the May of the year in which our 
story opens was already two weeks old. It was 
a late spring, the country people said, meaning 
that the hail and sleet and rain and bitter east 
winds were still in the ascendant, and that there 
was not a glimpse of sunshine from week’s end 
to week’s end. Times were hard and business 
was bad, and people already croaked about the 
danger to the harvest— it was a world that shiv- 
ered by the fire still, and waited for a change. 
Weather-wise folk looked up at the leaden sky 
every day, shook their heads, and said, “More 
wet;” and the wet came down as though they 
had asked for it, and washed out the energy from 
three-fourths of humankind in Worcester. 

It had been raining all day in the loyal city, 
just as it had rained the day before, and the day 
preceding that. It was raining at ten o’clock in 
the evening in as vigorous and lively a fashion 
as though it had just commenced, and the wind 
had turned out with extra strength to add to the 
dark night’s discomfort. Worcester had lost her 
heart, and given up and gone to bed, and at the 
railway station, where by the tables one could 
ascertain that a train was behind time by three 
minutes, there was a faint semblance of life, 
more depressing than the elements. There was 
one fly, with its windows drawn up, its driver 
asleep in the interior of his vehicle, and its drab- 
by horse coughing like a man. There was a wet 
old gentleman, glittering like a beetle in his wa- 
ter-proof as he Avalked up and down under the 
dim gas lamps of the station. There was a rail- 
way porter’s head peering occasionally from a 
half-open door, and declining to allow its body 
to come forward until the glaring eyes of the 
engine were seen advancing through the miser- 
ies of the night ; and there was a short, thin, 
haggard scrap of a youth, in tattered corduroys 
and a red comforter, curled up on a porter’s truck, 
and sleeping placidly in one of the thoroughest 
draughts of which that excessively breezy station 
can boast. 

The train that was overdue was not calculated 
to rouse the officials into energy, or bring the ho- 
tel vehicles from the city for the passengers, or 
entice able-bodied men and boys, in the hope 
of perquisites, from their homes ; it came from 
a dull dead branch line, and was going on to 
Gloucester; it was not likely to land many trav- 
elers en route or take up many at that hour of 


the night. When it arrived at last, it came into 
the station noiselessly and in a spiritless condi- 
tion, as though the steam were low and the en- 
gine-driver had just buried his wife, and only one 
bespotted window was slowly lowered in a third- 
class carriage as the train glided to the platform. 
From this window an ungloved hand and arm 
protruded and unlatched the door, and then a 
stalwart man of four or five and twenty years of 
age, a bright-faced, brown-bearded man, stepped 
out, dragged forth a portmanteau and a hat-box. 
stood aside to allow of the brisk entrance of the 
man in the shiny water-proof, and looked around 
him in that half-sharp, half-vague manner com- 
mon to individuals who land themselves in places 
that are new to them, or have changed much 
since their last farewell of them. The guard 
slammed the door, the engine gave a melancholy 
wail, and toiled on with its burden ; the youth 
in corduroys sat up on the barrow and stared at 
the portmanteau and hat-box rather than at their 
owner ; the fly-driver, who had roused himself, 
called out, “Carriage, Sir?” and not receiving 
a response with that promptitude which he con- 
sidered due to his position, cut the coughing 
horse viciously under the chin with his whip, and 
drove oft’ at full speed. 

The traveler, after a hasty glance at the sky, 
called out in a sharp, clear voice to the porter, 
who was slouching toward his room again, 

“ Here — I want you a moment.” 

The porter, an uncivil specimen of his class, 
hesitated, looked over his shoulder, and grunted 
forth to the third-class passenger, 

“ There’s no more trains.” 

“I don’t want any trains — I want you. Look 
alive, young man, if you please.” 

The young man, who was fifty, and gray as a 
badger, seemed impressed by the traveler’s brisk- 
ness, and flattered by the compliment paid to his 
youth, for he slouched slowly back and looked 
into the traveler’s face. It was a face worth 
looking at — at least some women would have 
thought so, though it was not so much a hand- 
some face as what might be termed a speaking 
countenance. It was sharply defined, with a 
pair of full gray laughing eyes, at variance or in 
contrast to a mouth and chin that w r ere significant 
of their owner having a will of his own ; it was 
a face of more than ordinary keenness and in- 
telligence, and an early outlook at the world had 
not scared or depressed it, unless appearances 
were against it and him. 

“I expected a carriage for me to-night.” 

“What sort of carriage ?” 


10 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“A private carriage from Mr. Culwick’s, of 
Sedge Hill. Do you know Mr. Culwick by 
sight, or his coachman ?” 

“There has been nothing here bnt cabs all 
day — and there's nothing likely to come now, I 
reckon.” 


“No, I reckon not.” 

The traveler looked at his portmanteau and 
hat-box. 

“ Where’s the parcel office?” 

“That’s shut.” 

“ Can they be sent to the hotel ?” 

“Not to-night, I think.” 

“Do you want any body to carry your lug- 
gage, Sir ?” asked a weak voice ; and the lad who 
had been dozing away time on the harrow ob- 
truded in an edgewise manner into the conversa- 
tion. The traveler glanced at him, and said, 

“It is too heavy for you, my man.” 

“No, it isn’t,” said the youth, with alacrity; 
“I’m very strong. I have been waiting for a 
job all night, Sir — if you don’t mind, Sir — for I 
am very strong; I am, indeed!” 

The eagerness of the request, the reiteration 
of his powers, the contrast which his words pre- 
sented to his white cheeks and eager dark eyes, 
attracted anew the attention of the gentleman 
for whom no carriage had arrived, before the 
railway porter turned upon the applicant. 

“You get out of this, young shaver. You’ve 
been here a sight too long already,” cried the 
porter, “and I have had my hi on you these two 
hours. It’s no use your hanging about as if — ” 

The boy cowered for an instant, and then turn- 
ed quickly on the man. 

“ Don’t lay a hand upon me — you had better 
not touch me,” he cried, warmly. “I am talk- 
ing to this gentleman, not to you. I am doing 
no one any harm — am I, Sir-?” 

“ Not that I see,” answered the traveler, thus 
appealed to. 

“And I’m very strong, Sir,” he urged again. 
“ May I try. I’ll carry it easily — see now!” 

The portmanteau was raised and flung upon 
his shoulder, the other hand caught up the leath- 
er hat-box, and the white face looked round the 
burden inquiringly. 

“ Where to, Sir?” 

“ To Muddleto..’s Hotel — do you know Mud- 
dleton’s ?” 

“All right, Sir.” 

The youth strode into the wind and rain, and 
the traveler, after giving a tug to his cap, put his 
hands in the pockets of his heavy coat, and fol- 
lowed his guide across and out of the station- 
yard. 

Yes, it was raining hard in the good city of 
Worcester ; the good city, in fact, seemed to have 
had more than a fair proportion of rain, judging 
by the choked-up gutters and the rivers of water 
in the roadway, that went swirling into off streets 
with hissing, gurgling noises. 

The youth turned the corner with the luggage, 
and the proprietor found him leaning against the 
brick Avail of a house when he had turned after 
him. 


“Which way, Sir?” he inquired. 

“Which way!” echoed the stranger; “why 
straight along there. Don’t you knoAvyour way? 

“Can’t say that I knoAv much about hotels : 
haven’t been at this kind of Avork a great while 
Sir.” 


“ Hoav long ?” inquired the traveler, someAvhat 
curiously. 

“ Three hours and a half.” 

“Come, that’s perseverance, if Ave take the 
weather into consideration. Y T ou are the lad to 
make your way in the Avorld, in good time, 
though — ” 

“ Though I haven’t made much Avav yet,” said 
the other, as he started off again with his burden, 
as if anxious to get beyond his companion’s ques- 
tioning. This was an impossible feat, however, 
handicapped as he Avas with a hat-box and a 
heavy portmanteau — such a heavy portmanteau 
that all the worldly goods of the owner must be 
stowed aAvay inside, he thought, unless the gen- 
tleman was in the iron trade, and traveling with 
samples. 

There was no intention in the stranger’s mind 
of alloAving his fragile-looking porter to get very 
far ahead of him ; it was not politic, it was not 
safe, and — yes, he was a curious man in his Avay. 
One or tAvo long strides took him to the youth’s 
side again, and once more the sharp black eyes 
peered round the portmanteau in a half-nervous, 
half-observant Avav, as a dumb animal might have 
done at its master. 

“I’m very strong, Sir — don’t touch the port- 
manteau, please, and I shall get on all right. 
Muddleton’s is not very far noAv, I suppose,” said 
the volunteer, breathing more quickly as he toiled 
onward in the roadAvay, splashing through mire 
and puddle Avithout regard to any selection of 
ground. 

“ Half a mile or so.” 

“Good gracious!” the lad ejaculated to him- 
self. It was beyond his distance, and he should 
snap half-Avav on the journey, he Avas afraid, but 
he struggled on ; and the traveler marching by 
his side, and with his head bent doAvn to keep 
the rain from his face, did not perceive that his 
attendant reeled a little in his progress. 

“Three hours and a half,” said he at last. 
“What have you been doing before this?” 

“Nothing particular.” 

“ Living on your means ?” 

“No.” 

“ On your Avits ?” 

The lad trudged on and did not answer him. 
He wavered more in his gait, and splashed the 
legs of his companion Avith superfluous mud and 
water, and the man walked bv his side, studying 
the roadway still, and unobservant of the failing 
efforts of the Aveak boy whom he had intrusted 
with a heaA’y task. He Avas more interested in 
the youth’s past state than in his present con- 
dition, and regarded him in the abstract. 

“Who are you, boy?” he said, without look- 
ing up, and in the tone of a man onty half in- 
terested in his subject; “what have you come 
to this sleepy city for ?” 

“I — don't knoAv,” was the reply, and a more 
sullen reply it Avas than usual, despite its jerkiness. 

“Not for a living?” 

“No.” 

“To find a friend ?” 

“No.” 

“ HaA-e you run aAvay from home? Is thqt 
it?” 

The man looked at the lad at this query — 
looked Avith a grave earnestness that betokened 
a keener interest in him than he had hitherto 
shoAvn. 


11 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“If that’s it, we are in the same boat, boy,” 
said he. “I ran away from home ever so long 
ago.” 

“Because — ” said the lad, curious in his turn, 
and even stopping short for an instant for the 
answer. 

“ Because there was no place like home ! — no 
place so confoundedly uncomfortable and un- 
sympathetic and hard-cornered — and so I put 
on my hat and walked out. And yet, after 
all — ” He paused and made a clutch at his port- 
manteau, that he suddenly thought was in peril 
of slipping from the lad’s shoulders. “ Here, 
hold hard, youngster. What’s the matter?” 

“It’s all right; let me be. I can carry it; I 
said I could,” cried the boy, with excitement, 
and marching himself and luggage away from 
the touch of the elder man. This sudden effort 
seemed too much for the overtaxed strength of 
the youth ; he reeled away toward the foot-path, 
and went on with weak and tottering legs for a 
few more moments, when he suddenly collapsed. 
It was an utter break down at the very instant 
that the traveler had become aware of the posi- 
tion, and was striding forward to render assist- 
ance, and the result was chaos — the youth all of 
a heap on the curb-stone, with the hat-box un- 
der him, and the portmanteau in the roadway 
like a big boulder in a mountain stream, with 
eddying currents surging round it and meeting 
on the other side. 

It was a scene that surprised the traveler, and 
disturbed his equanimity ; for something like bad 
language escaped him, as with the instinct of 
self-preservation — that glorious first law of na- 
ture — he lifted his portmanteau from the road 
into a deep doorway, and turned round to inspect 
his prostrate companion. When he was leaning 
over him, and peering into his face, the little an- 
ger that was in him hastily evaporated, and was 
replaced by a kindly sympathy more worthy of 
the man. 

“ You are ill — you are hurt,” he said. 

“No ; let me be ; I shall get up in a minute.” 

“ Can’t you get up now ?” 

“I'm a little bit giddy still — the street turned 
round all of a sudden — but I will go on with the 
luggage presently.” 

“Oh no, you won’t,” said the man, dryly; 
“you should have never attempted it. I was a 
brute not to see. By Jove, the kid’s going to 
faint!” 

He put his arms round him, and lifted him 
into the doorway, as he might have lifted an in- 
fant, and looked again at the white wan face un- 
der the old Scotch cap, which was pulled lightly 
over the forehead in a hang-dog fashion. 

“ Poor little beggar !” he muttered, “why did 
I load him like this, and loaf along by his side 
like a nigger-driver? — Here, what’s your name! 
can’t vou open your eyes, just for a moment, till 
I— ” " 

Here his anxiety took the form of action, for, 
still holding the boy’s head on his shoulder, he 
kicked with energy at the door against which he 
was leaning, and awoke the whole house, which 
was supposed, at the first alarm of its inmates, 
to be a sheet of flame from top to bottom. 

A snuffy old woman, in an old black cap 
weighed down bv grimy artificial flowers, was 
the first to wrench open the door; she had been 
sleeping by the fire, sitting up for a late hus- 


band, and she appeared with a bound on the 
door-step, and nearly fell over the strange couple 
in her haste. 

“ Water — a glass of water, please,” cried the 
traveler. “This child has fainted.” 

“ What — who — water — whose child is it ?" 
she called forth. Then she realized the urgen- 
cy of the case, and ran back into the room, re- 
turning very quickly with a light in one hand 
and a glass of water in the other, at the same 
time as heads peered down the narrow staircase, 
and some one opened a window above, and ask- 
ed twenty questions in stentorian tones, without 
getting an answer to one of them. 

“You can come into the house — if he ain’t 
going to die, mind you,” said the woman. “ Has 
he been run over?” 

“ No, crushed, that’s all. Give me the water. ” 

The water was passed to the stranger, who 
held it to the lips of the fainting lad. 

“ Take off his cap, please,” he said, “ and then 
let him be. He will get the air that way.” 

The Scotch cap was twitched off, and then 
the woman, and the man who was supporting 
the lad, leaned forward and stared with amaze- 
ment at two small side-combs which were in the 
head, and which had been used for fixing and 
drawing up beneath the Scotch cap a profusion 
of raven hair. 

“ Mussy on us, it’s a gal !” cried the old wom- 
an. “ Why, what’s her game?” 

“Ay, what’s her game?” said the man, very 
thoughtfully, as he echoed back the slangy ques- 
tion of his interlocutor. 

The girl was still insensible, when some one 
in his shirt and trowsers came shuffling down 
stairs with a cup in his hand. 

“ If gin’s any good, she can take a sip of this.” 

“ Have you any brandy?” asked the traveler. 

“Oh, you’re a blessed sight too partikler, 
guv’ner. No, Ave ain’t got no brandy, no sham- 
pain, nor any think.” 

“Sperits is sperits,” said the old Avoman ; 
“ and if you’re fool enough to Avaste it, Simkins, 
on a brazen chit like that, Avalking about in men’s 
clothes in that undecent way, do so if you like.” 

“ She don’t look very brazen, does she, Sir ?” 
said the man, with a hoarse laugh, as the gen- 
tleman took the cup from his hand. 

“No,” Avas the ansAver, as a feAv drops of the 
spirit were given to the girl, who heaved a deep 
sigh, and put her thin hands to her head, as if 
she missed her cap already. 

“ She’s coming round,” he said. 

“ She’s been shamming,” said the old woman, 
who had groAvn strangely uncharitable Avithin the 
last few moments. 

“She will do if Ave can get her home,” said 
the traveler. “Are you better? — Iioav do you 
feel noAv ?” he asked, kindly. 

“ I’m all right,” was the slow ansAver; “I — 
I think so. What has been — the — ” 

Then she stood up slowly, Avith her hands 
pressed to her temples, glared from the traveler 
to the woman with the light, gave a faint little 
scream of surprise, snatched suddenly at the cap 
dangling from the fingers of the Avoman, and 
Avith one Avild spring forward passed from them 
into the rain and wind, and vanished away in 
the darkness. 

The traveler made one or tAvo strides after 
her, and then stopped. 


12 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ Why should I follow her, and annoy her far- 
ther?’' he said, as he paused. 

He remembered that he had given his strange 
porter no remuneration for services thus abruptly 
terminated, and started off again, but it was too 
late; and another memory coming to him that 
he was leaving his luggage in the street, he went 
back for it, and discovered that it was being 
taken into the house by the Samaritans with a 
certain amount of undue haste. 

“Thank you,” he said, politely. He shoul- 
dered his portmanteau, picked up his damaged 
hat-case, and marched off to Muddleton’s Hotel, 
where the waiter received him urbanely, but was 
puzzled at the quantity of mud which he brought 
in along with his luggage. 


CHAPTER II. 

ORDERS FOR THE MORNING. 

Sitting in the coffee-room of Muddleton’s Ho- 
tel, his slippered feet planted on the old-fashioned 
brass fender, and his gray eyes fixed upon the 
dancing flames of the big coal fire, the man who 
had come to Worcester thought out the inci- 
dents of the day, and sketched forth a map of 
progress for the morrow. Warm and dry and 
at his ease, the wan face of the masquerader of 
an hour ago came before him more often than he 
had bargained for, the girl being apart from his 
life, and only a stray incident by the way-side of 
a career that had been eventful and varied. He 
was a man of the world, and had seen strange 
sights and met with strange chances and mis- 
chances, and yet he had not been at any time 
more perplexed than on this night of coming 
back to home. He was a man whom other folks’ 
trouble disturbed, apparently — hence not a selfish 
man highly developed. There was a stern story, 
he was sure, of much privation marking the life 
of that weak woman who had struggled into a 
man’s dress, and hung about Worcester railway 
station for man’s work and man’s wages ; and he 
had experienced privation himself, and lived it 
down in some degree, not losing sympathy with 
it, or growing callous to it. He did not want 
the incident of that night to trouble him, but it 
would — why, he hardly knew, for poverty is com- 
mon enough and eccentric enough. Perhaps it 
was on his conscience that the girl had toiled 
hard for a sixpence, and he had not rewarded 
her for her labor. Would she think that she was 
not to be paid on account of the non-fulfillment 
of the contract between them? — that the bar- 
gain had been struck, but not carried out ? — that 
he was a man who expected every scrap of his 
money’s worth for his money, like — Ah ! well, 
he would not mention names ; perhaps even he 
had altered for the better with advancing years. 

He rang the bell, and the waiter entered. 

“If any body should ask for me — ” 

“Yes, Sir. What name. Sir?” 

“Reuben Culwick,” he replied ; “but he— she 
—will not know my name. The party who help- 
ed me with my portmanteau from the station, I 
mean, and who left me in a hurry. She — he — 
is aware that I am staying here for the night ; 
therefore be good enough to ask him— her— the 
lad, I mean, or whoever comes,” he added, with 
a dash, “into the room to-night or to-morrow 


morning. Do you understand ?” he inquired, 
as the waiter listened open-mouthed to these 
rambling instructions. 

“Yes, Sir — perfectly. Any body who comes ; 
man or woman. Yes, Sir,” he said, with great 
briskness. 

“Stop one moment,” said Mr. Culwick, as 
the man flitted toward the door. “ I shall want 
a trap to Sedge Hill to-morrow.” 

“At what time, Sir?” 

“ Ten in the morning.” 

“ To go and return ?” 

“ And return ?” he said, inquiringly to him- 
self. “ Yes, and return ! That is certain.” 

“Beg pardon, Sir?” said the waiter, interrog- 
atively. 

“To take me to Sedge Hill, and bring me 
back to Worcester, at ten in the morning,” he 
repeated, in a decisive tone ; and the waiter hav- 
ing withdrawn, he lighted a cigar, and set him- 
self to his coal-fire studies once more. The in- 
structions which he had given had sufficed to 
turn the current of his ideas, and the adventure 
of the night passed away from his mind with the 
deeper thoughts that followed it. 

“And return!” he said, and took his cigar 
from his mouth to laugh to himself more than 
once — and odd laughs they were, of various de- 
grees of hilarity, from the hearty and unaffected 
to .the laugh with the inner ring in it, the under- 
current, as it were, of something which was 
scarcely irony, and which might have been in- 
terpreted into a lurking sorrow or regret by any 
one who had known his history. 

“Yes, Reuben,” he said, when, at a later 
hour, he was going up stairs to his room, “ to 
return ! Positively the last appearance of Reu- 
ben Culwick at Sedge Hill. Will there be much 
of a crowd to see the gentleman under those in- 
teresting circumstances ?”. 

He had made up his mind to solve the riddle 
quickly for himself, and at ten in the morning he 
was standing in front of Mr. Muddleton’s Hotel, 
drawing on a pair of gloves, and critically in- 
specting the animal which the proprietor had har- 
nessed to the dog-cart. There was a faint pros- 
pect of a dry day, if not a fine one ; the clouds 
were not so low as usual, and the wind had 
changed during the night. Reuben Culwick 
looked up and down the street, and thought of 
his little adventure in Worcester last night. The 
waiter, not too busy, was standing at the door, 
interested in the temporary departure of the cus- 
tomer, and Reuben turned to him. 

‘ ‘ Has any one called this morning for me ?” 

“No, Sir.” 

“ If any one should call about helping me with 
the portmanteau last night, give — him — half a 
crown. ” 

‘ ‘ Half a crown, Sir ?” said the waiter. ‘ ‘ Yes, 
Sir.” 

“And ask her to call again,” added Reuben 
Culwick, as he sprang into the trap and drove 
off. 

“ Give him half a crown, and ask her to call 
again,” said the waiter, looking after him. “ He 
doesn’t know what he’s saying ! The old man 
at Sedge Ilill will never make him out. A regu- 
lar Culwick he is, and no mistake about it.” 

And there was no mistake about it, that Reu- 
ben Culwick was still remembered at Muddle- 
ton’s Hotel. 


secondIcot 

CHAPTER III. 

THE HOME THAT THERE WAS NO PLACE LIKE. 

Whether Sedge Hill should lie to the east or 
west, the north or south, of Worcester city mat- 
ters not to the purport of our story ; and it may 
not be politic to enter too minutely into the de- 
tails of location. That it was a big stone house 
seven miles from Worcester is sufficient to re- 
late. It was called Sedge Hill from the rising 
ground on which it had been built, and from the 
wooded acclivity beyond it, where from the sum- 
mit was a glorious view of miles of English land- 
scape, with the cathedral towering above the 
house roofs of the distant city, and the Severn 
winding like a band of silver through a fair green 
country, well loved by art and poetry. Sedge 
Hill — speaking solely of the mansion to which 
that title had been given — was a staring edifice 
of considerable proportions, with an aspect of 
newness about it that fourteen years had not done 
much to soften. It had been built to the order 
of the present proprietor, who had made much 
money by cotton stockings, and had risen from 
twenty shillings a week at the loom to the splen- 
dor of his present life. It tvas a new house to 
suit the new man who had been lucky enough to 
get rich. There were spacious grounds beyond 
— even the larches on the hill were part and par- 
cel of the domain — and there was a big room at 
the side that was new to Reuben Culwick since 
he had last stood in his father’s house, and it 
was this that he pulled up his horse to inspect 
before turning into the carriage-drive. 

“Improvements,” he said to himself. “ Even 
the house has grown since I was here.” 

Then he went rapidly along the drive, drew 
up in front of the house, and stepped lightly and 
briskly from the trap, giving the reins to a rosy- 
faced young man in livery, who emerged from 
some stabling in the rear to be of service to the 
new-comer. 

“Old Jones has gone, then?” he said to the 
servant. 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Dead?” 

“Oh no, Sir. He’s with Squire Black, of 
Holston.” 

“And you reign in his stead. Well, we can 
not all reign.” 

He knocked and rang, looking steadily through 
the glass doors the while. Another new face — a 
smart young house-maid, whom he had never seen 
before, to replace Mrs. Perkins, who was stout 
and sallow — came to the door and admitted him. 

“Is Mr. Culwick in ?” 

“Yes, Sir ; but he’s engaged just now.” 

“Will you be kind enough to give him my 
card ?” 

The maid-servant took the card and departed, 
and Reuben Culwick, like the merest stranger, 
and feeling like a stranger, very doubtful of his 
reception, walked up and down the spacious hall 
with his hands behind him, and his hat in his 
hands. 

Presently the servant re-appeared. 

“Will you step this way, if you please, Sir ?” 

Reuben followed the servant along a corridor 
to a door at the extremity — the door of the new 
room, he was certain, from his old remembrance 
of the house. The door was opened, and his 
name announced, and he felt that he was passing 


SIN SARAH. 13 

into a spacious apartment, the walls of which 
were bright and rich with many pictures, and 
the ceiling paneled and massive, with ground 
glass in the panels, for the proper transfusion 
ot light on Mr. Simon Culwick’s “collection.” 
When Simon Culwick had lost his son Reuben, 
he had taken to the “masters,” ancient and 
modern, and given them all the love that was 
in his heart. It was not much, but they had 
had every scrap of it. In learning to love pic- 
tures he had forgotten how to love men. 

But it was not at the paintings which enriched 
the walls that Reuben Culwick gazed with so 
much of curious earnestness, but at the big 
broad -faced man sitting before the fire in a 
capacious leathern chair, and who was looking 
curiously and steadily at him. There was a 
pretty fair-haired young woman, in gray silk, 
sitting at the table in the recess of a bav-win- 
dow, reading, and Reuben was conscious of her 
presence, that was all. She rose not at his en- 
trance, only looked toward him with a certain 
degree of curiosity as he advanced, and then 
turned to the pages of her book, or affected to 
do so, as he held his hand out to his father. 

“So you have thought of me at last, have 
you ?” was rolled out in a gruff bass, as a large, 
white, gouty-looking hand was placed in that of 
his son. 

“ So I have come back at last,” answered Reu- 
ben Culwick. 

“You can sit down,” said the father. 

“ Thank you,” said the son. 

This was the meeting after five years’ absence 
— the calm after the great storm which had hap- 
pened in that house five years ago. This was 
the home that the son had never liked, that he 
felt he did not like now, although he had come 
to it of his own free-will. There was a pause, 
during which each man took stock of the other 
without any particular reserve. The father had 
not altered much — his whiskers were grayer, and 
the shadowing beneath the eyes was somewhat 
deeper, and that was all. There was the same 
sense of power, 'or obduracy, in the big broad 
chin and the thin closed indrawn lips, and it 
was easy to guess from whom Reuben Culwick 
had inherited his decisive-looking mouth. 

In the son there was a vast change, and the 
father noted it at once, being an observant man 
in his way. This was not the stripling who had 
walked out of his house rather than obey his 
command ; who had replied angrily to his own 
anger; who had been as disobedient as he had 
been dictatorial and unyielding. This was a 
man of the world, with his will hardened by 
contact with the rough surfaces of which the 
world was full, and probably more difficult to 
deal with than ever. Time had improved him, 
and made a man of him, and given him self- 
possession and courage and brains — and he had 
lacked all these when he had flown out of the 
house in his last passion. But he would be for- 
ever lacking in obedience — the father, Simon 
Culwick, was assured of that already. 

“I got your letter,” said the father, “and I 
might have sent the carriage for you, had it not 
rained so much.” 

“The horses might have caught cold instead 
of me,” said the son, dryly ; “but I didn’t want 
the carriage. I was glad that I had not further 
to go last night than Worcester.” 


14 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


lie looked toward the lady in the bay-window 
at this juncture, and his father noticed the wan- 
dering gaze, and paid no attention to the hint 
which it conveyed. 

“Well, what have you been doing? What” 
(after a pause, and with another steady and im- 
passive stare at his son) “do you purpose do- 
ing now that you are here ?” 

“ Is it worth while entering into that question 
at once ?” 


no less, than he had expected from the first. Tie 
had not come for argument, to own more than 
ids share of error — scarcely to own that a sec- 
ond time, having already explained in his letter 
almost as much as it was necessary to explain. 

“I suppose, after all that has passed, you 
have no intention of sitting down in the house, 
and wanting complacently for my death and my 
money ?” the father inquired. 

“You told me- that I should never have a 



“Why not?” was the rejoinder. 

“ It may give rise to discussion, and you and 
I never agreed together in debate, Sir,” said 
Reuben, half deferentially and yet half satiric- 
ally. 

He had come back — long ago he had owned 
himself in a great degree in the wrong— he had 
wished to see his father again, and the reception 
had already chilled him, though it was no more, 


penny of your money, if you temember, Sir,” 
said the son, calmly. 

“And you never will,” was the blunt answer. 

“ I have never expected it after that day, or 
after that oath,” said Reuben Culwick. 

“Why should you?” said Mr. Culwick, in a 
loud tone of voice, and yet without betraying 
any passion. “Have I been known in all mv 
lite to break my word? Has not sticking to mv 


[1 






SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


word, through thick and thin, in evil report and 
good report, made me what I am ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I would rather break my own heart than 
break ray word. You know it,” said the father, 
boastfully. ’ 

Fifty hearts as well as your own — yes I 
know it,’ answered the other, with an unflinch- 
tng gaze at his father, “and hence I come to 
you, not for assistance, I don’t want it — not for 
affection, I don’t expect it— but with the sim- 
ple motive which I hope that my letter convey- 
ed to you last week — to see you, to express sor- 
row for a long alienation, to feel glad that you 
are well, to tell you that I am not unhappy, and 
to go away again.” 

The son’s tones seemed to impress the father, 
who subsided into his easy-chair, from which he 
had leaned forward, as if cowed by the cold, clear- 
ringing tones of the voice which fell upon his 
ears, a voice which subdued him, and an arro- 
gance that had been always difficult to quell — 
which touched him, though he never owned that 
— which made him even prouder of his son, 
though the time never came for him to own that 
either. 

The young woman in the background leaned 
forward with clasped hands, until he caught her 
glance again, when she once more turned her 
eyes upon her book. 

“Have you made your fortune?” asked the 
father, in a different voice. 

“ On the contrary, 1 have been somewhat un- 
successful. ” 

“How do you live ?” 

“I write — a little,” he added, modestly. 

“And earn a little. lean guess the drudg- 
ery — don’t tell me any more about it.” 

“ It is a long story that would scarcely interest 
you.” 

“ It would not interest me in the least.” 

There was another long pause, during which 
the son, still at his ease, still singularly hard de- 
spite his respectful manner, glanced round at the 
pictures on the walls, admired them even secret- 
ly, but not enviously, wondered at their cost, and 
looked once more in the direction of the lady, 
whose pensive face and quiet grace he admired 
also, and at whose presence he wondered in a 
greater degree, though he repressed all exhibi- 
tion of surprise. 

. Suddenly the father said, with that singular 
abruptness characteristic of the man, 

“You can stay here if you like.” 

“For how long?” asked the son, surprised at 
last out of his assumption of stoical composure. 

“Till we disagree again,” said the father, with 
a short, forced laugh. “That will not be many 
days, I suppose ?” 

“One moment, Sir,” said Reuben Culwick, 
with grave politeness, and still studying his fa- 
ther, and experimentalizing upon him with grave 
philosophy. “ A mistake parted us, and we are 
laying the foundation of another already, unless 
I explain the first.” 

“Go on.” 

“ I mav speak before this lady?” 

“Yes.” 

“I was hardly twenty-one— a rash and foolish 
young fellow — when you wanted me to marry 
your friend’s daughter.” 

“ You would have been rich — you would have 


15 

been respected — it would have been for the 
best. ” 

“No, I think not.” 

“I say, ‘ Y es. ’ ” 

“ I refused to entertain the proposal, if vou 
remember. J 

“ Remember ! remember it 1” cried the father, 
turning pale with anger. “ Do you rake this up 
again to insult me?” 

“No, to enlighten you, ’’said the other. “At 
that period, Mr. Culwick, I had promised my 
mother that I would not marry the lady.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

UNSUCCESSFUL, 


The effect of Reuben Culwick’s announcement 
upon his father was remarkable. The big man 
rose from his chair with his two large hands 
clinched, and his face of a deep purplish hue, 
and glared at his son in speechless wrath. For 
an instant it appeared as if he were contempla- 
ting a rush at this disobedient offspring, as in 
days past, being a man fierce and uncontrollable, 
he had done, to the boy’s alarm, and the dismav 
of a poor fragile woman long set apart from him*; 
but the son sat immovably in the chair, which 
had been placed a few paces from his irascible 
parent, and regarded him imperturbably. 

Simon Culwick sank slowly and heavily into 
his seat again, and panted for a while. The dark 
coloring left the face, but the bushy black brows 
retained their lower curves over the eyes, and 
the mouth was hard and fixed, until*the lips 
parted slightly to allow a few words to escape. 

“And this is the first time you tell me that 
you were in league with your mother?” 

. u Yes,” answered Reuben, politely. “I was a 
willful lad who had not been brought up well, or 
looked after carefully, and I had been only taught 
to fear you. My mother, who had been separated 
from you for some years, I was learning to respect 
then. When we quarreled, I went to take care 
of her as well as I could. I was with her when 
she died.” 

“You know how I hated your play-acting moth- 
er— how she hated me.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Why do you tell me that you sided with her, 
when it would be so much the better policy to 
keep this to yourself?” said the father, bitterly. 

“Because I am not afraid of you any longer 
— because I see now where you were wrong, and 
where she — ” 

“ That ’ll do,” interrupted the father; “ what 
was the objection to the lady ?” 

“She did not like her,” said the son; “she 
distrusted her.” 

“ Very likely,” was the reply ; “she distrusted 
every body. Perhaps it is well you didn’t marry. 
You might have had a son to grow up and be a 
blight upon you,” said Simon Culwick, bitterly. 

“Heaven forbid that any blight should come 
from that direction !” 

“And you expect me to forgive this deceit as 
old men do at the end of a play?” 

“Or toward the end of their lives,” added 
Reuben. 

“ Don’t talk to me of the end of my life,” he 
cried ; “ I dare say you have thought enough of 


1G 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


it — have considered that it would be as well to 
sink your cursed pride and your curseder temper, 
and come here in prodigal-son fashion. But it 
won’t do ; I’m not a man to be hoodwinked in 
that way.” 

“ Yes, I have thought of the end of your life,” 
answered Reuben Culwick, moodily. 

“It was an infernal liberty,” said the father ; 
“ I shall live as long as you.” 

“And it seemed hard,” the son continued, “to 
die in enmity with each other. We were both 
in the wrong — both obstinate men ; and I should 
have been glad to make peace.” 

“And make money.” 

“ That I can do for myself,”, was the repty. 

“It’s lucky you can, for I shall never make 
any for you,” said Simon Culwick, shortly. 
“Had you come here penitent — had you not 
preferred your mother to me, and your mother’s 
advice to mine, I might have given you another 
chance; but I have not made up my mind to do 
that, understand me, for I doubt you still.” 

“Nevertheless, I am not sorry to have seen 
you, father,” said Reuben, rising; “I came out 
of my way — a long way out of it — to reach Wor- 
cester. I am glad to find you well. Good-day.” 

He extended his hand again, but this time "his 
father refused to take it. 

“ You have come out of your way to give me 
a fresh wound — that’s all,” said the father, sul- 
lenly, “and you have done it effectually. I 
don’t want you to trouble me again. Should I 
at any time want you, I’ll send for you.” 

He had intended this for merciless irony ; but 
Reuben Culwick took a card from his pocket and 
laid it on the mantel-piece. 

“A line will always find me at this address,” 
he said, “and I shall be always glad to hear 
from you.” 

“ I dare say you will,” muttered the father. 

“Otherwise,” he added, and his mouth as- 
sumed the firm expression of his father’s, “we 
shall never meet. I shall come not here again 
in all my life.” 

“You will not come here again at my invi- 
tation,” said the father, as decisively as the son. 
“ I can’t forgive you — why should I ? I never 
forgave any body. I never forgave vour moth- 
er. Your two aunts offended me years ago, } r ou 
know. Have I ever forgiven them? One died 
last summer, and I wouldn’t go to see her — 
wouldn’t go near her — and the other one is in 
St. Oswald’s Almshouses, blind as a bat, and liv- 
ing on eight shillings a week. Eight shillings 
a week, and those pictures there cost me eighty 
thousand pounds.” 

“A good investment,” said Reuben Culwick, 
coolly, and critically looking round the walls ; 
“ they will increase in value year by year, Sir.” 

As he looked round, he became aware for the 
first time that the lady in the bay-window had 
disappeared. She had passed from the room 
silently^, through a second door at the extremity 
of the picture-gallery. 

“And I never gave her a penny in my life,” 
added Mr. Culwick senior. 

“Poor old Sarah — blind, is she? and in the 
almshouses too? I am sorry.” 

“ What the devil have you to be sorry about ?” 

“I liked old Sarah,” said Reuben ; "“she was 
one of the few friends I had when I was a boy, 
and when you were not rich.” 


“No,” answered Simon Culwick, half to him- 
self. 

“But I am detaining you,” said Reuben; 
“and I am pledged to reach London to-night. 
Good-by again.” 

He did not offer his hand to his father a sec- 
ond time, and the father only murmured a few 
indistinct words by way of farewell salutation. 

When he had reached the door, Simon Cul- 
wick called out his name, and Reuben paused 
and turned. 

“I am not deceitful,” said the father, “and 
I may as well tell you that I have made my will, 
and that you will never be a penny the better for 
it. It is all left — all,” he added, “ away from an 
undutiful son.” 

“You threatened me with disinheritance years 
ago, and,” said Reuben, perhaps a little acridly, 
“you are a man of your word.” 

“Else I should not be the man I am.” 

“Possibly not.” 

There was a moment’s pause, and then Reu- 
ben Culwick quitted his father’s presence, and 
closed the door after him. He w-ent from the 
room into the corridor with so thoughtful a mien 
that he was not for the moment aware that the 
young lady in gray silk whom he had seen in 
the bay-window was stepping back from the big 
fleecy mat at the door, to allow of his egress. 
When he saw her she put her finger to her lips, 
and he repressed an exclamation of surprise. 

“ Go back,” she said, with an excitement that 
astonished him; “don’t give up — don’t leave 
him like that — it’s your last chance.” 

“You have been listening,” said Reuben, 
coldly. 

“ To every word,” was the honest confession ; 
“and you have not said a word to please him, 
and much to offend. Why did you come, if in 
no better spirit titan this?” 

“I came to be friends with him.” 

“ And you have failed.” 

“ Hardly. He understands that I bear him 
no ill will — my own father, madam ! — for years 
of much privation and neglect.” 

“Go back to him. Tell him bow sorry you 
are for every thing — do something before you 
go that will leave behind a better impression,” 
she urged again. 

“No ; I can’t go back.” 

“You are as hard as he is,” she cried ; “ as if it 
mattered what you said to him — as if it were not 
worth a struggle to regain your position here.” 

“I should struggle in vain ; I— but may I ask 
why a young lady whom I see for the first time, 
and whose position in this happy house is a mys- 
tery to me, should take so great an interest in 
my welfare ?” 

“I don’t take any interest in you,” was the 
sharp reply; “but I know that you are poor 
and proud and foolish, and that your father is 
not as heartless as you fancy.” 

“And who are you ?” said the wondering Reu- 
ben. 

“ Only the housekeeper, Sir,” she said, quaint- 
ly; “keeping house for Simon Culwick— and in 
your place. 1 ou should hate me as a usurper 
already,” she added, mockingly, “if you had 
any spirit in you.” 

“ The housekeeper — yes — but,” he said, won- 
deringly, and without regarding her strange 
taunts, “I was not aware — ” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 17 


“ Why should you be aware of any thing about 
me, you who are as quarrelsome and strange as 
your father, and have kept away so long ? There, 
go home, and think of the best way to bring that 
old man to his senses.” 

“And interfere with your chance,” said Reu- 
ben, lightly. He was in better spirits already, 
and the odd manner of this young lady interest- 
ed him. 

“I have no chance,” she answered, “or I 
should not be very anxious for you to get back. 
I should be too selfish — I should try and keep you 
away, being as fond of money as your father is.” 

“I hardly believe this.” 

“ Mr. Reuben Culwick can believe exactly 
what he pleases,” said the young lady, spreading 
out her skirts and making him a very low obei- 
sance, which he felt bound to return with al- 
most the same degree of mock solemnity, after 
which he would have continued the conversation, 
had she not darted along the corridor and disap- 
peared. 

“A queer young woman,” muttered Reuben, 
as he walked to the front-door and let himself 
out of the house. The horse and chaise that 
he had hired of Muddleton’s were still in charge 
of the rosy-faced groom, whom he presented with 
a fee, and then drove away without looking once 
behind him. He had fulfilled his task ; it had 
failed, as he had been sure all along that it 
would fail, knowing so much better than any 
one else what his father was like, and how un- 
like — Heaven forgive him ! — to all other fathers 
of whom he had heard men speak, and whom, in 
his pilgrimage, he had encountered. ' Ah ! it was 
lucky that he had not turned out a worse man, 
considering his early training and his early neg- 
lect, the want of sympathy with him and his 
boyish pursuits and aspirations, the total absence 
of all affection, his own utter loneliness of youth, 
and the world left to tempt him, rather than af- 
ford him grave experience. Why had he not 
grown up an arrant scamp, a thorough black- 
guard, as some will, left to the blight of such 
neglect as his, and then faced suddenly with 
bitter tyranny and exaction ? What had saved 
him ? — Heaven, his own strong will, or his play- 
acting mother whose life he had shared at the 
last ? 

He drove into the city of Worcester with his 
face graver and more thoughtful than he had 
driven away from it that morning, although he 
had foreseen much of the result of his journey, 
and had prepared for it. The position was a 
strange one, stranger than our readers are aware 
of at present ; and that fair-faced, energetic 
young lady who had reproved him rendered the 
world before him a serious subject for contempla- 
tion. He should remember coming to Worces- 
ter again to the last day of his life. It was a 
new beginning ; even in the rain last night he 
had stepped from the commonplace to a some- 
thing like romance, but he had forgotten the first 
incident of his arrival until he was in Muddle- 
ton’s coffee-room, and the waiter, with his hands 
on the table, was leaning across the white cloth 
toward him. 

“Beg pardon, Sir, but he’s been.” 

“Who has been ?” asked Reuben. 

“The young man who helped to carry the lug- 
gage last night for you.” 

“Has she, by Jove?” said Reuben. 

B 


The waiter’s eyes rounded and enlarged, • but 
he had been bred in too polite a sphere to ex- 
press any opinion, although that number forty- 
eight, which was the number of Reuben’s room, 
should be so ignorant of the sex of the party who 
assisted him last night was extraordinarily be- 
wildering, unless drink had done for forty-eight 
before his arrival. 

“Yessir. And he said,” he added, with the 
slightest emphasis on the pronoun, “that he 
thought half a crown a precious little, consider- 
ing how he had spoiled his things with your box. 

‘ The infernal box,’ he called it, along with other 
names.” 

“ She said that !” 

11 He tried it on very hard for another shilling, 
but I told him that I had my orders from you 
direct, and could not afford to advance, and that 
it was like his impudence to come at all. I said 
that, Sir,” added the waiter, deferentially, “be- 
cause he got awful saucy, and we had to put him 
out of the house. His langwidge, Sir, was bad.” 

“What kind of a man was he?” asked Reu- 
ben Culwick. 

“A shortish young man, Sir.” 

“Yes; and thin ?” 

“Like a lath.” 

“ And very pale ?” 

“Yessir, and dirty.” 

“A womanish kind of face, with big eyes — 
black eyes ?” 

“Oh no,’ Sir — not a bit womanish. He was 
as full of pock-marks as a cribbage-board, and 
his eyes were particularly small, Sir.” 

“Very good— or rather very bad,” said Reu- 
ben Culwick ; “half crown poorer, and the man 
has got the money instead of the woman.” 

“Indeed, Sir — yessir;” and the waiter de- 
parted. Outside the door he tapped his fore- 
head significantly, and jerked his thumb over his 
shoulder in the direction of the room he had 
quitted ; this was for the instruction or amuse- 
ment of another waiter coming down stairs with 
an empty soda-water bottle and glass on a tray. 

“ Mad as a March hare, Bob,” he said, senten- 
tiously. 

“Who ?” said Bob. 

“ Forty-eight.” 

“That’s young Culwick, ain’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, he always was a rum un.” 


CHAPTER V. 
st. Oswald’s. 

Reuben Culwick had an early dinner at 
Muddleton’s, thereby dispensing with the luxury 
of a lunch. After dinner he spent some time 
poring over a time-table, and finally rang the bell. 

“ I shall want my luggage taken to the station 
this afternoon,” he said to the waiter who had 
doubted his sanity; “I wish to catch the 5.15 
train for London.” 

“ Yessir.” 

“ And the bill, please, at once.” 

“Yessir.” 

After he had defrayed the expenses of his 
board and lodging at Muddleton’s he sat with 
his hands in his pockets, considering many things 
of grave perplexity. The waiter left him ; when 


18 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


business took him into the coffee-room again, 
number forty-eight was laughing to himself just 
as lunatics of a cheerful frame of mind, or of no 
mind at all, are in tire habit of doing. 

“ Why shouldn’t I ?” Reuben Culwick said to 
himself ; “ I shall not have another chance — 
she’s one of the family — I may never see Wor- 
cester again. ” 

He beckoned the waiter to him.. 

“The St. Oswald Almshouses are at the top 
of Foregate Street, are they not ?” 

“Yessir — in the Tithing.” 

“Ah! the Tithing. I have been so long 
away that I forget names and places — every 
thing but injuries,” he muttered ; then he turned 
to the waiter, impressed once more upon him 
the necessity of his luggage being at the rail- 
way station by 5.15 p.m., and strolled leisurely 
out of the hotel, after a “ good-day” to the man 
who had attended upon him. He did not go di- 
rect to the Tithing, but wandered round the ca- 
thedral, and strolled to the bridge, over which 
he looked at the Severn, and where he hesitated 
strangely. 

“What is the use ? I shall only hear the re- 
cital of her grievances, real and imaginary — dis- 
turb her and myself — feel myself in the way, 
and leave her none the happier. What’s the 
use of my going, after all ? I am as helpless, poor, 
and blind as she is !” 

He did not see the use of it in the sluggish 
waters that flowed on beneath the arch of the 
bridge, and at which he gazed so steadfastly — he 
had even turned away as from an unthankful 
task of which the river warned him, when a sec- 
ond impulse set him with his face from the rail- 
way station, and took him with rapid strides in 
the direction upon which he had first resolved. 
The church clocks were striking three when he 
paused at the gateway which opened upon the 
inner quadrangle of houses dedicated to St. Os- 
wald — one of the few kings of whom good-wear- 
ing saints have been made — and looked through 
at the court-yard and the pavement checkered 
with shadow, and thought what a silent and 
ghost-like place it was, lying apart from the tur- 
moil of the town. The doors of some of the 
almshouses were open, and at one of them was 
a faint sign of life, in the form of a young wom- 
an, poorly but neatly clad in a black and white 
striped cotton dress, who was sitting with her 
elbows planted on her knees, her hands support- 
ing her temples, and her face bent close over a 
book that lay upon her lap. As Reuben ad- 
vanced he saw that the watcher on the thresh- 
old had tired of her volume, and closed her eyes 
in sleep. 

It was a selfish necessity to arouse her, for 
there was no one about of whom to make in- 
quiries, and time and train would not wait for 
Reuben Culwick. The young woman had plen- 
ty of opportunity for sleep, if she could begin at 
that early hour of the afternoon, thought Reu- 
ben, as he lightly touched her shoulder. 

The sleeper moved uneasily, and then jerked 
her head back suddenly, and looked at this in- 
truder upon the quiet sanctuary of St. Os- 
wald’s. 

“ Can you tell me where — ” 

Reuben Culwick paused in his inquiry, for the 
white pinched face and the big black eyes were 
the face and eyes of the strange girl who had 


volunteered to carry his luggage last night, and 
collapsed by the way. He could not be mis- 
taken ; he had looked too anxiously at her as 
she lay in her swoon to be deceived, "despite her 
feminine guise at this crisis, and the taller wom- 
an that she looked in it. The big black eyes 
blinked like a cat’s in the sun, and the lashes 
quivered in unison ; but then he had awakened 
her from slumber, and there was no sign of rec- 
ognition on her countenance. There was a cer- 
tain amount of contraction of the eyebrows, that 
might have indicated a half scowl at the traveler 
for waking her thus unceremoniously. 

“Do you know me?” Reuben said, changing 
his tone and question. 

“No,” was the slow reply; “I’ve never seen 
you before.” 

_ “Not at Worcester station, at ten o’clock last 
night, when you helped me with a heavy port- 
manteau that I was selfish enough to let you 
carry for me ?” he continued. 

“I helped you with a portmanteau !” said the 
girl, scoffingly, “at Worcester station! Yes, 
that’s very likely!” 

“It was you,” said Reuben, sternly, as he con- 
tinued to stare at her, and as the girl’s cool de- 
nial of the fact began to aggravate him. “Why 
do you tell me that it was not ?” 

The young woman did not answer readily. 
She rose to her feet — a tall, angular girl, smitten 
sorely by poverty — and leaned against the door- 
post, peering at her questioner with her brow 
still contracted. 

“Why should I help you?” she said at last. 
“Can’t you help yourself?” 

“\ou fainted away; you were weak, and 
gave up. Why deny this ?” 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” 
was the sullen answer. “ Who told you that you 
would find your friend in such a place as this, I 
should like to know?” 

“ Then you were not at Worcester station last 
night ? ’ said Reuben, still persistently. 

“ No,” was the response. 

“ This is a very nice young woman,” muttered 
Reuben Culwick; “ if I could have lied as com- 
placently as that to my father, I might be now 
on a fair way to re-instatement.” 

The girl was turning away as if with the in- 
tention of passing into the house, when Reuben 
remembered the object of his quest. 

“Will you tell me, please, in which of these 
small establishments resides Sarah Eastbell?” 
he asked. 

The girl paused, and then swung herself rap- 
idly round and faced him again. 

“Whatnext?” she cried, angrily, “and what’s 
next after that?” she added. “ I’m Sarah East- 
bell, and if you have any thing to say against 
me, say it. I’m not ashamed of my name ; I 
never was — I never did any thing wrong in my 
life. Now, then, what is it that you want?” 

“You are Sarah Eastbell!” said Reuben, with 
a new interest asserting itself. “Then vou are 
no, you can’t be,” added our hero', exhibiting 
again that incoherence which had already be- 
wildered the waiter at Muddleton’s. 

“Will you tell me what you want here?” 
asked Miss Eastbell, peremptorily. 

“I want to see an older lady than yourself, of 
the same name, and residing, I believe, in one 
of these almshouses.” 


inquiry' ind<ied! m “' M ” WaS the cautious 

“ Upon no particular business— a friendly call 
that s all, said Reuben, lightly ^ ’ 

COm P My g ” andm0ther iS n0t "' e “ en0U S h t0 see 

“She will see me,” replied Reul)en Culwick. 

“ She is not able to— ” 

The statement concerning Mrs. Eastbell’s idio- 
syncrasies was destined never to be completed, 
tor a short, sharp “Sarah!” in an excruciating! 
? hlfh. key, that was like the twang of a wire 
and left a humming sound in Reuben’s ears’ 
came from an inner room on the left-hand side 
ot the doorway. 

Coming ! ’ said the tall girl ; and she disap- 
peared at once, and left Mr. Culwick on the 
threshold, half resolved to follow her. He did 
not do so, however; he lingered there politely, 
'While some mutterings and murmurings went 
on in the inner room, and he felt that he was 
the subject of discourse, and that Miss Eastbell 
was giving a very bad account of him, and prej- 
udicing her grandmother against him. This 
young woman was a being to be wary of. 

“I don’t care what he is, or what he wants,” 
he heard the shrill voice say again, “and so let 
him come in, Sally.” 

“But—” 

“Ah ! it’s no good your ‘butting’ me, Sally ; I 
will hear what he has to say. Perhaps he’s 
brought a fortune with him ! ” 

“Very well,” answered Sarah Eastbell the 
lounger; and before Reuben was prepared for 
her re-appearance she was standing in the door- 
way again. 

You can come in,” said the girl, sullenly. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


19 


But 


CHAPTER VI. 

‘SECOND-COUSIN SARAH.’ 


She led the way to a small room, scrupulously 
clean, with a bed in the centre of the room, and 
an old woman in the centre of the bed. There 
was nothing to be seen of Mrs. Eastbell but 
her face, and a grim, yellow, parchment face it 
was, cut up by a hundred wrinkles, and brought 
strongly into relief by the white sheet drawn un- 
der her chin, and the voluminous frilled cap in 
which her head was framed. The eyes were 
closed, though the pupils were restlessly moving 
beneath the lids, which were to be lifted never 
again in St. Oswald’s. 

“ Well, Sir,” said the head above the sheet, 
“ will you please to state what business you have 
with old Sarah Eastbell, who has been past busi- 
ness for the last ten years ?” 

It was a crisp and not wholly shrill voice, now 
that it had dropped an octave or two. The vis- 
itor walked to the bedside, sat down in a rush- 
bottomed chair that was there, and looked hard 
at her. 

“When I saw you last you were a bustling 
little woman, carrying your years well,” said 
Reuben Culwick, tenderly. “I am sorry to find 
an old friend brought down as low as this.” 

The pupils beneath the sealed lids A^ere mo- 
tionless for an instant, and seemed listening in 
themselves to the man’s voice; then they began 
to move to and fro with great rapidity. 


I think that I should know the voice, 
it can’t be — ” 

“Can’t be whose voice?” he asked, as she 
paused. 

“It can’t be Reuben’s, can it?” she asked 
eagerly. 

“ Yes, it can.” 

Now to think of that, after these vears, and 
here ! ” said Mrs. Eastbell. “That’s kind of you, 
Reu ; I'm very glad,” and the old lady fought 
hard with the sheet, and got a thin yellow hand 
above the bedclothes, and extended it in the 
direction of her nephew, laughing in an odd 
chuckling way that portended future hysterics, 
if she were not careful. Reuben shook the 
hand in his, and the girl stood by the mantel- 
piece, watching the greeting furtively. 

“ What made you think of me ?” said the old 
woman, after a moment’s pause. 

“ I came to Worcester last night. I heard 
this morning for the first time that you were 
here. ” 

“Who told you?” 

“ My father.” 

It was a face despite its sightlessness that ex- 
pressed a great deal, Reuben Culwick thought, 
as the gray eyebrows arched themselves, and the 
mouth became rounded. 

“You are friends, then? He has forgiven 
you ?” she said. 

“No.” 

.“Ah ! he will presently,” said Mrs. Eastbell. 
with an easy confidence ; “ there are many good 
points about mv brother Simon, and it is only 
a question of time. All things come round iii 
time, Reu— even good luck. That’s what I 
often tell our Sally.” 

Sally winced suddenly at this introduction of 
her name into the discourse, and Reuben looked 
across his prostrate relative toward the young 
attemknt, who drew a pattern on the floor with 
the point of her boot, and did not return his 
glances. 

“Some day Simon will walk in here just as 
you have done, and say how sorry he is for all 
the past, ’ said the old woman. “Sometimes I 
lie awake fancying I can hear his footsteps com- 
ing across the paved yard toward me.” 

“You should not fancy that.” 

“ Why not ?” was the quick reply. “ It does 
me good.” 

! “I would not build upon his offering you any 
help,” said Reuben Culwick. 

| “I don’t want any help. Eight shillings a 
j week keep more life in me than 1 know what to 
do with. I’m very happy, though it’s an awful 
place for flies. Sally does a little work when 
she can get it, and is a dear, kind nurse, who 
never tires of me. She’ll read the Bible half 
j the day to me, when I’m too ill to run about 
j much. A good girl, Sally !” 

! “lam very glad to hear it,” answered Reu- 
ben. 

He would not have dispelled the old woman’s 
faith in her granddaughter by a word — by any 
question hinging on last night’s mystery, or to- 
day’s prevarication. This was a woman who 
had faith in every body, and extracted happiness 
even from an almshouse in a shady corner of 
Worcester city. 

“When I am gone I should like somebody to 
get Sally a good place. Don’t you know any one 


20 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


who wants an honest, hard-working, truthful 
girl?'* 

“Not at present,” said Reuben, glancing across 
at Sarah Eastbell again, who was still tracing 
hieroglyphics on the floor. She looked up this 
time as he replied to her grandmother, and 
shrugged her shoulders either at the old woman’s 
criticism or at the wild idea of her being indebt- 
ed to him for her future position in life. 


tried to do something for Tom, but he went to 
sea.” 

“Tom is Sarah’s brother, I suppose?” 

“Yes.” • 

“And at sea now ?” 

“And at sea now, doing favorably, thank his 
stars ! ” 

Reuben Culwick had his doubts of Thomas 
Eastbell. In Ins mind he had already associated 



“Will she be wholly alone in the world some 
day ?” asked Reuben Culwick, inquisitively. 

“She has not a friend ; she will make plenty, 
of course, but she has them to make.” 

“My cousin Mark was her father, then. Is 
he—” 

“ Yes, he’s dead. So’s his wife. Thev were 
a worthy couple, but they were very unlucky, 
and so better out of the world than in it,” said 
the grandmother. “When they died last year I 
ottered Sally part of my home, and mv sister 


him with an uncivil young vagabond who had 
called for money at Muddleton’s Hotel, and con- 
sidered himself but ill remunerated by half a 
crown for work at which he had never assisted. 

“Oh, you hear from him occasionally?” 

“ Yes ; and Sally reads me all his letters.” 

Reuben looked once more across at Sally East- 
bell. She was staring at him eagerly until he 
met her gaze, when the dark eyes shifted to the 
floor again, and a deep red blush, a brick-dust 
kind of blush, burned itself slowly in her cheeks, 





SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


and staid there as long as he looked in her di- 
rection. He was glad that she could blush ; he 
was surprised at her ; he was curious enough to 
wish that he could fathom the little mystery 
about hei , and arrive at the secret of her mo- 
tives and the history of her life. She was de- 
cidedly a strange girl, living a strange existence 
in the house of her grandmother, and plaving, 
as it seemed to him, a double part. Unless lie 
was really deceived— and this was not the girl 
who had met him in man’s clothes last night, 
but some one strangely and wonderfully like her ! 

# He could not resist a question which rose to 
his lips, and which brought to Sarah Eastbell’s 
countenance the old sullen expression which had 
struck him first that day. 

“Does Sarah sleep here — live with you alto- 
gether ?” 

“Yes,” answered the old woman ; “it’s very 
selfish of me to keep her to myself, but, please 
the Lord, it will not last a great while longer. 
She’s young— she’s industrious, and will be"al- 
ways able to get her living — any where — and if 
you hear of any thing that will s : uit her, you will 
bear her in mind, Reuben ?” 

“ I shall not forget her,” said Reuben, dryly. 

“ She shall come and tell you when I’m gone, 
if vou let me know where you live,” added Mrs. 
Eastbell, in a brisk, business-like manner; “it 
is as well to arrange these little matters.” 

“I live at Hope Lodge, Hope Street, Cam- 
berwell. ” 

“ That’s right, Reu — always live in Hope, my 
lad.” 

It was a feeble joke which nobody appreciated 
but this light-hearted old blind woman, and she 
appreciated it for the three of them, and lay 
chuckling over it until it nearly choked her. 

“ You haven't told me much about your life, 
and what you’re doing, Reu. But you’re not 
going away yet.” 

“I must leave in ten minutes,” said Reuben, 
looking at his watch. 

“ What — not stop and take a cup of tea with 
your old aunt?” cried Mrs. Eastbell. 

“ I must be in town to-night.” 

“ You find something to do in town, then ?” 

“Oh yes.” 

“ And money for the doing of it?” 

“Yes — heaps of money,” he said, laughingly. 

“ If I ever get strong enough to come to Lon- 
don, Sally shall bring me to Hope Lodge.” 

This was another joke to which her two list- 
eners did not take readily. They were blind 
witticisms to match her malady. 

“I am going now,” said Reuben Culwick, 
stooping over her. “ Good-by, aunt.” 

“ Good-by, lad. Thank you for a visit which 
will cheer me up for days ; and think of some- 
thing for my Sally, if you can.” 

How strongly impressed that sullen girl by the 
fire-place was on the old woman’s mind he did 
not fully comprehend until this last moment of 
their meeting. 

“Grandmother!” said Sarah the Younger, 
deprecatingly ; but Mrs. Eastbell went on, the 
thin bony hand clinging to her nephew’s tightly. 

“She’s every thing to me, but I wouldn’t mind 
parting with her at once — to-morrow, if you 
should hear of a decent situation for her. Any 
body can mind me — and I don’t want to stop 
the way to her advancement. She’s clever at 


21 

her needle — she reads well— she’s quick at fig- 
ures — in any tradesman’s shop, now, she’d be 
very handy — and she’s only seventeen ; so young, 
Reu, to be alone in the world after I am gone!” 

“Yes,” said Reuben, “so young!” 

So young, and so willful and deceptive, he 
thought also — after he had parted with his aunt 
and said “Good-day” to Sally Eastbell, and 
walked into the little square court-yard, where 
the rain had begun to patter briskly again, as 
though there had been no wet weather for weeks, 
and it was coming down to make up for lost time. 

He was looking at the leaden clouds which 
were deepening overhead, when Sarah Eastbell 
stole to his side and twitched his arm. 

“You need not trouble yourself to think of 
any thing for me,” she said, ungraciously; “ you 
wouldn’t have done so, I dare say— but it’s" as 
well to tell you I don’t want any help from you ; 
and as for leaving her before she dies — well, I'd 
rather die myself, much!” she added, with a 
sudden passion exhibiting itself. 

“You are attached to her ?’’ said Reuben Cul- 
wick, quickly. 

“She’s the only friend I ever had,” was the 
girl’s answer, as she relapsed into her old moodi- 
ness of manner. • 

“ Your father and mother ?” ■ 

“Don’t speak of them,” said the girl, shud- 
dering, “oh, don’t speak of them.” 

“Your brother Tom — who is getting on so 
famously ?” 

“Toward the gallows,” cried the girl. 

“ What does it all mean ? Why do you tell 
that poor old woman — ” 

“ So many lies ? — because the lies come handi- 
est,” she said, defiantly, “and I have been bred 
upon them, and they’re natural to me. That’s 
all.” 

“Will you tell me one truth before I go?” 
he said. “ Come, now, Sarah Eastbell — Second- 
cousin Sarah — in whom 1 am interested.” Reu- 
ben Culwick spoke with tenderness ; he possess- 
ed a wondrous sympathetic voice, and the girl 
looked at him till the sullen expression of her 
face softened and then died away. 

“ ‘ Second-cousin Sarah !’ ” she quoted ; and a 
faint smile flickered round her mouth for an in- 
stant. “Well, goon.” 

“ You will answer straightforwardly?” 

“ You will not go back and tell her, and make 
her miserable, then ?” she said, as though by way 
of compromise. 

“I will not.” - 

“Go on, then, Second-cousin Reuben,” she 
added, half scornfully, half lightly. 

“You are the girl who helped me with my 
portmanteau last night ?” 

“ Yes,” was the quick response. 

“ And you thought that I had come to tell 
your grandmother about it ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why were you so anxious to earn money,, 
and in so strange a fashion ?” 

“Oh,” said the girl, turning away, “you’re 
too curious.” 

“ Come,” he said, snatching at her arm, “an 
honest confession, *and then good-by, Sarah 
Eastbell. ” 

“I sha’n’t tell you,” she answered, struggling 
to get her arm away. 

“ Was it for yourself?” 


22 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“No.” 

“For Tom ?” 

“No.” 

“To make good something that Tom had 
taken from his grandmother ?” said Reuben. 

“Ah! you know, then,” cried Sarah East- 
bell, wrenching herself from her second cousin’s 
clutch, and running with great swiftness into 
the house, the door of which she closed with a 
noise that shook the place and startled Mrs. 
Eastbell from dream-land. 

“What’s that?” said the grandmother — 
“ thunder ?” 

“Yes, it looks like a storm outside,” answered 
the girl. 

“ I should think it did, when it has nearly 
shaken me out of bed,” said Mrs. Eastbell ; 
“ but I dare say it will clear the air, and kill 
some of the flies. I hope poor Reu will not get 
wet going to the station.” 

“ Can’t he take a cab ?” 

“I don’t believe he can afford it, Sally. He’s 
like you and me, girl, very poor and beastly 
proud.” 

“ Is lie ? I should have thought that he had 
been a gentleman.” 

“Gentlemen don’t liv^ in Hope Street, Cam- 
berwell, I know,” said Mrs. Eastbell. 

“But they can afford to leave money for 
their poor relations, poked under the pillow of 
the bed,” cried the granddaughter, whose quick 
dark eyes had detected the corner of a bank- 
note peeping from the pillow on which Mrs. East- 
bell’s head was resting. “Why, this is the luck 
you and I have been talking about so long!” 

“I didn’t want his money,” muttered the old 
woman; “I’m not so poor but what I pay my 
wav. He’s a very silly fellow — he always was.” 

“ Indeed!” 

“He never could keep money — he was al- 
ways doing something or other that was foolish. 
How much is it, Sally?” 

“ It is a five-pound note.” 

“Put it in the tea-pot, girl,” said the old 
woman; “it will come in handy presently. I 
can have a comfortable funeral now. ” 

Sally Eastbell made a clattering noise with 
the lid of an old china tea-pot, which, with its 
spout off, formed the central ornament of a high 
mantel-piece, but she did not deposit the note 
therein. That was not a safe receptacle for 
money. Tom knew of that ! 


CHAPTER VII. 

JOHN JENNINGS. 

Mrs. Sarah Eastbell, of St. Oswald’s, was 
correct in her judgment. Hope Street, Cam- 
berwell, was not a fashionable quarter of the 
great metropolis. It is sufficient to indicate that 
populous thoroughfare as one of the turnings de- 
bouching from the Camberwell New Road— a 
street without pretension, a cross between a Lon- 
don street and a thoroughfare a little way out of 
town, and familiar to clerks with no spare cash 
to expend on omnibus or train, as a short-cut, 
providing one did not lose his way, to Walworth 
Road. 

Certainly not fashionable, although the inhab- 
itants had music with their meals— it being a street 


much frequented by organ men, who ground out 
Verdi in long lengths all day, and were reward- 
ed by small donations from patrons who never 
failed them when work was plentiful. It was a, 
street, also, wherein there was much dancing to ' 
the organ music ; and where so many limp and 
smeary children came from in the long summer 
evenings, which were made hideous by multifa- 
rious screechings, was matter for grave wonder- 
ment. It was a street of one-story private houses 
principally, which had broken out here and there 
into shops, that had been erected over front gar- 
dens by speculative landlords, and had not al- 
ways been successful ventures, judging by the 
aspect of the tenants or the goods which were 
dealt in. It was a street that the tallyman and 
the broker’s man, the civil young man behind 
the loan-office counter and the uncivil old man 
from the county court, knew better than any 
street in the parish, and where the rate-collect- 
ors had more trouble in getting in their accounts 
than in any part of their weary and pertinacious 
rounds. It was an unequal street, too, and full 
of class distinctions. There were three or four 
two-story houses, with wider front gardens and 
less rickety palings, toward Camberwell, just as 
there were some smaller and dirtier hovels as 
the street narrowed toward the busy thorough- 
fare of Walworth, where there were two courts 
sacred to hard-working but disputatious Irish 
families, who brought their fire-irons into the 
streets on holidays and Sundays, and rapped each 
other’s heads with them when religious or po- 
litical differences required force of argument. 
It was a street that boasted of one large red- 
brick house even, that in days gone by — possibly 
when there was only a bridle-path from Lam- 
beth to the pleasant little hamlet of Walworth 
— might have stood alone there, looking over 
miles of fields and hedge-rows, ending with the 
Sydenham hills. Now it was dedicated to fes- 
tivity and to Bankruptcy Court decrees at alter- 
nate periods of the year. It had a garden of an 
acre, which by-gone speculators had hemmed 
round with mouldy little arbors ; it had also an 
orchestra, a dancing platform, and a grass-plot 
on which fire-works were let off on gala nights, 
when the admission was sixpence, half of which 
amount might be taken out in drink. It was a 
place which the magistrates had striven to keep 
shut, and which had an ugly habit of evading 
magistrates, and of opening suddenly under mys- 
terious licenses, or without any particular license 
worth alluding to. It copied in a feeble and 
flabby way the more respectable and pretentious 
gardens of the Royal Surrey or the extinct Vaux- 
hall ; but it was a bad place at the core, known 
to characters of all degrees of badness and all 
degrees of foolishness, where silly servant-girls 
and vicious shop-men giggled and danced and 
promenaded, and were the most respectable of 
the community. 

Three doors from this select place of enter- 
tainment was Hope Lodge, one of the two-sto- 
ried houses already mentioned, and here at the 
time of our narrative resided Mr. Reuben Cul- 
wick, short-hand writer, occasional special re- 
porter to the Penny Trumpet , and a gentleman 
with a small connection among a certain class 
of tradesmen whose books were too many for 
their calculating powers, and invariably became 
obscure in details toward Saturday. 


23 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 

Ilo^rLo^^'anfunder^he bellhandle the nineT l7 P T"! P resen %- a "d hence Mr. Jen- 
right-hand door-post was a tiny brass plate rth and® 1 1 'll? , h ' gh ,. eSteem Mr ‘ Keuben <*'*«<*, 
Ins name engraved thereon, and “ First Floor” Mr Tpnnf d fee hng . was reciprocated, despite 
in small Roman oanUoio *,.,.:** .._j . Mi. Jennings possessing many faults, and being 


ln s . ma11 . Roman capitals written underneath, oth- 
erwise it might have been impossible, without 
very ample instructions for the purposes of iden- 
tification, to discover the residence of our hero • 
tor the gentleman who rented Hope Lodge, and 
to whom Reuben paid the modest sum of three 
shillings and sixpence weekly for the hire of 
apartments which the lodger had furnished after 
his own taste, had not hidden his light under a 
bushel, and had extinguished Reuben’s claim to 
locality by extensive advertising over his house 
front. I he name of “ Jennings,” in large white 
capitals on a crimson ground, was the sky line of 
the edifice, and another board, with a “Jen- 
nings” of somewhat more moderate proportions, 
had been fastened between the windows of the 
first and second floors, Avhile “Jennings, Pyro- 
technic Artist,” in blue and yellow, by way of 
variety of coloring, was inscribed over a dingy 
shop-front, behind which were various fire-work 
cases, soiled and fly-spotted and time-worn, and 
many of them hollow shams, despite the air. of 
explosive business about their blue touch-paper 
caps. On the door also had been painted “Jen- 
nings, Fire-work-maker to the Court,” and over 
the door was a piaster coat of arms, significant 
of the royal patronage which the family legend 
asserted had been once vouchsafed to an extinct 
Jennings, who had been blown to atoms one Guv 
Fawkes season. 

The present proprietor, who jested at ill luck 
at times, when questioned concerning this an- 
nouncement, intimated with a chuckle that the 
court alluded to was one of the narrow thorough- 
fares at the other end of the street, which was 
liberal with its patronage when November nights 
came round. 

Mr. Jennings was always waiting for Novem- 
ber, although he drove a little business in col- 
ored fires for minor theatres at all times of the 
year, and had twice been pyrotechnist to the 
“Royal Saxe-Gotha Gardens,” next door but 
two, where he had twice been nearly ruined by 
the defalcations of impecunious lessees, whom he 
had trusted with all his heart and all his powder. 

On that May night of Reuben Culwick’s re- 
turn to London he was standing at his door 
smoking a long clay pipe, and waiting patiently 
for November, after his general rule. Trade 
was slack, and he had finished work and taken 
to fresh air, which he preferred receiving in his 
shirt sleeves when the weather was not too in- 
clement for its reception. It was past eleven 
o’clock, and a dark, dull night for Mr. Jennings’s 
vigils ; but he clung pertinaciously to his door- 
post, like a man who thought November would 
slip by him in the dark if he did not keep his 
eyes open. But on that particular evening he 
was not waiting for November so intently as for 
his lodger, Reuben Culwick, who had said that 
he should be back that evening, and who was a 
man on whose word every body might rely. Be- 
ing a man to be trusted, Mr. Jennings, fire-work- 
maker, sat up for his lodger, for the earliest 
glimpse of the “ first-floor,” whom he had missed 
exceedingly during the last fortnight. There 
were some ties of sympathy between landlord and 
tenant which accounted for this, and which will 


to all outward seeming scarcely a man to take to 
readily. 

Standing on the threshold of his domicile, with 
the flickering light of the street lamp on his face 
and figure, he seemed a lank and weedy man 
enough a man whom much tobacco had enerva- 
ted, perhaps, and kept from standing straight at 
that hour, for he leaned at an extraordinary angle 
against the door-post, as though he had a hinge 
m him, which had given way and disturbed his 
giace of outline. Still it was repose and ease to 
Mr. Jennings, and he smoked placidlv. He was 
very pale one could see by the gas-light, a thin 
and much-lined, odd-looking young man of thir- 
ty, with dusty flaxen hair that wanted cutting 
hanging straight as candles on his head The 
gentleman’s name in full was John Jennings 
but the sportive custom of Hope Street had be- 
stowed upon him the title of “ Three-fingered 
Jack, for the irrelevant reason that he had 
blown away a thumb from his left hand, after 
the family fate, which had never left a Jennings 
sound and whole who had once taken to the sale 
of fiie-works in Hope Street. The Jenningses, 
from the time of the grandfather of royal pat- 
ronage, had always striven to supply the general 
public with a good article, for its money, and some- 
times they overdid it in strength and quality. 
Hope Lodge, in three generations, had been 
thrice blown up and twice burned down ; hence 
Reuben Culwick got his apartments at a reason- 
able price, people of nervous temperaments ob- 
jecting to lodge at Jennings’s, over the surplus 
stock, after having once ascertained that bits of 
the family had been picked up as far as Camber- 
well Green and Walworth Gate occasionally. 

Suddenly John Jennings, Fire- work-maker to 
the Court, was joined in his watch by a woman 
as thin as he was, and as pale, or else the gas 
opposite was bad for the complexion. She put 
her hands suddenly, and possibly heavily, on his 
shoulder, for Mr. Jennings winced and doubled 
up still more under the pressure. 

“I wish you wouldn’t, Lucy,” Mr. Jennings 
said, remonstratively. 

“Wish I would not what, John ?” asked the 
new-comer on the scene. 

“Take a person off his guard like that, and 
scare him.” 

“Have you grown a more nervous creature 
still, watching for what will never come again ?” 
said the woman, with a strange asperity of tone. 

“ What will never come again ?” repeated her 
brother, in dismay. “Do you mean that Mr. 
Culwick will not come back, then ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Bless my soul, how long have you been 
thinking of that ?” said Mr. Jennings. “ You 
didn t say so before — you hadn’t such a thought 
an hour ago. What makes you get so foolish an 
idea into your head now ?” 

He laughed in an odd, hysterical fashion, like 
a woman, as his greater interest took him out 
of his languid position, and set him upright and 
staring at his sister. 

“Well, I’ve been thinking it over — what he 
is, and what we are— and I’m sure that he will 
be glad to be rid of us altogether. He has only 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


24 

stopped here out of compliment all this while ; 
but you can’t see that so well as I can, ’’she add- 
ed, fretfully. 

“I haven’t tried to see it.” 

“You shut your eyes and trust to chance, 
John — you always did.” 

“ I’ll trust to Reuben Culwick,” he said, lean- 
ing against the door-post again, and puffing slow- 
ly at his pipe. “ He said that if he didn’t write 
he would be back here on the second Tuesday in 
May, and back he’ll come like clock-work, al- 
though, mind you — ” 

“ Go on, John. What am I to mind ?” asked 
his sister, gravely, as he paused. 

“Although, mind you,” he continued, “his 
coming back don’t mean exactly that good luck 
to him which stopping away would, and I wish 
him good luck — always — anyhow. But then we 
should have heard from him. Isn’t he as truth- 
ful as you are?” 

“ He may have missed a post,” she answered, 
evasively — “have postponed telling us humble 
folk of the good fortune that has come to him. 
Good news will keep, you know.” 

“ For a young woman who goes more regular- 
ly to chapel than any one of mv acquaintances, 
you are uncommonly uncharitable, Lucy,” said 
Mr. Jennings, meekly, and without any intention 
of satirizing the last speaker. 

“ It is not want of charity to speak the truth 
that is in one’s mind,” said his sister, in self- 
defense. 

“I am not quite sure of that,” replied John 
Jennings. “ There are some truths that jar a lit- 
tle. When you told me yesterday that I was a 
poor muddler, it hurt my feelings, though I didn’t 
show it.” 

“And though you will muddle on to the end 
of your life, poor John,” she said, more kindly, 
even tenderly. 

“Very likely. What am I to do?” 

‘ ‘ Rouse yourself — read your Bible — pray,” said 
the strange young woman, with an extraordinary 
energy asserting itself, which seemed to dismay 
her brother, who edged closer to the door-post, 
and looked away from her to another notice 
board erected in his front garden, where “Go to 
Jennings for your Fire-works” was legibly in- 
scribed. 

There was a long pause after this, broken at 
last by Mr. Jennings saying, 

“You don’t want him back, then, Lucy?” 

“Not if he will be happier away.” 

“ Prosperous, you mean ?” 

“Yes,” was the reply. 

“You would like him to forget us?” 

“If it would do him any good, or if he wish- 
es it.” 

“Ah, yes ! Well, if he has gone, you’ve wor- 
ried our best friend away, for you always would 
interfere and preach to him.” 

“ He isn’t our best friend.” 

“ Yes, I know what you’re going to say,” said 
her brother, feebly, “‘of course; but i’m not 
speaking of that. And Reuben— by George, 
here he is! Hurrah!” 

And Mr. Jennings, forgetting his apathy, ran 
down his front garden, and went, bare-headed 
and in his shirt sleeves, at full speed down Hope 
Street, leaving his sister in charge of the prem- 
ises. 

“ That’s like him,” she said, in a pitying tone 


of voice. She took her place against the door- 
post, leaning there as wearily and listlessly as 
John Jennings had done, and looking in the 
direction in which he had vanished. She was 
short-sighted, and could not see the meeting be- 
tween the two men ; but when she was sure that 
they were coming on together — when a hearty 
laugh from Reuben Culwick, and a little spas- 
modic and thin echo of it from her narrow-chest- 
ed brother, disturbed the stillness of the street — 
she quietly and undemonstratively backed from 
her post of observation into the dark passage 
behind her, and delayed her greeting with the 
man who she had prophesied would not return 
to Hope Lodge. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE WELCOME BACK. 

The meeting between Reuben Culwick and 
John Jennings was indicative of a considerable 
amount of good feeling, even of friendship, be- 
tween two men whose characters, habits, and 
pursuits were wholly dissimilar. They had been 
absent a fortnight from each other, but John 
Jennings seized both hands of our hero, and 
shook them very heartily. 

“I thought you would come back, Mr. Reu- 
ben,” he said, with a certain amount of deference 
in his address, despite his friendliness of greet- 
ing— “I really did.” 

“ Did I not say that I should be here to-night 
unless I wrote to the contrary ?” asked Reuben. 

“ Yes; but so many things happen, and — ” 

“And Lucy said that I should not come back,” 
said Reuben, shrewdly. 

“Yes,” confessed John Jennings. 

“Ah ! she knew better in her heart,” said our 
hero, “only she does not look at life so cheerful- 
ly as she might do; but then she’s not strong.” 

“No, she is not strong,” said John Jennings, 
accepting the excuse which his lodger had put j 
forward to account for his sister’s distrust. 

“ Has she been well since I have been awav ?” 

“Pretty well,” responded John — “for her.” 

“ And Tots — how’s Tots ?” 

“Oh, she has been fretting after you in fine i 
style.” 

“ I have brought her a doll as big as you are.” 

And then the two men laughed, and it was the [ 
echo of this laugh which had scared Lucy Jen- ! 
nings into the back parlor, a poorly furnished, ( 
neatly kept apartment, where she waited patient- ! 
ly for their arrival, with her thin hands crossed 
upon her lap. 

By the light of the candle on the table it was 
not difficult to perceive that Lucy Jennings had 
been a pretty woman once, before pain and anx- 
iety and time — what three destroyers they are! 

— had taken the prettiness of youth out of her. 
She was not as old as her brother by two years, ! 
but she looked nearer eight-and-forty than eight- 
and-twenty at first glance. Only a careful study | 
of her suggested to an observer that she was 
younger than her looks by almost a score of years. 1 

Reuben Culwick and John Jennings came into j 
the parlor together, and the latter, with a croak i 
of triumph, exclaimed, “There, Lucy, who is ; 
right now ?” as the former advanced to shake 
hands with her. 

Lucy looked up into the face of the big-chest- I 


ed, healthful man, and smiled faintly in response 
to the cheery expression which she saw there. 

You have kept your word, then, Mr. Keu- 
ben, she said, placing her hand in his; and a 
very cold hand, with not much life-blood in it, it 
was that lay in his brown palm. 

“ **ut you didn ’ 1 think that 1 should,” he cried. 
No, was the fearless reply, as the thin lips 
closed together. r 

“ Now what does she deserve, to face a man 
and a brother, and a first-floor lodger of long 
and honorable standing, with this odious greet- 
sjdd ’ tuning to John Jennings. 

“A good scolding, certainly,” answered John 
to this appeal. 

He had set aside his pipe, and was fumbling 
at the lock ot a small cupboard by the fire-place 
as he replied. 

“I think so,” answered Reuben ; “I think it 
shows a want of human feeling, an absence of 
all Christian charity ; and Lucy Jennings is 
found guilty — sentenced — executed. ” 

Reuben Culwick was in boisterous spirits, or 
he would have never committed the indiscretion 
of suddenly lifting up the prim Miss Jennings in 
his arms and kissing her. In all his life he had 
never kissed her before— never dreamed of tak- 
ing such a liberty with his landlord’s sister ; but 
his high spirits carried him away, and lifted 
Lucy Jennings as high as the ceiling before he 
kissed her lightly, and placed her, as he might 
have done a child, in her chair again, where she 
glared at him in amazement, with eyes distended 
and her face not destitute of color now. 

4 You have been drinking,” she gasped 
forth, indignantly, “or you would have never 
done that.” 

“She thinks every body drinks,” said John 
Jennings, pathetically, as he produced from his 
cupboard a half-filled bottle of Irish whisky and 
two glasses, which he placed with due care in the 
centre of the table. 

“No, I haven’t been drinking, Lucy,” said 
Reuben, quietly ; “but this is home, and I am 
glad to get back to it.” 

“Ah! I dare say you are,” she added, with 
irony. 

Reuben Culwick was used to her moods, but 
it struck even him that she was different in her 
manner that night. 

‘ ‘ Don’t you believe me?” he asked, leaning for- 
ward and regarding her with greater intentness. 

.She. looked down at the faded hearth-rug at 
this direct appeal, and evaded his steady gaze 
toward her. 

“ If you say so again I will believe it,” she 
answered, after a moment’s silence. 

“I say that I am glad to get home— that this 
is home,” he said, very firmly. 

. “I believe you, then,” she answered, in a dif- 
ferent tone ; “ but why are you glad to get back 
to a wretched place like this ?” 

“ My mother died here. You and your broth- 
er were kind to her and me when we could not 
help ourselves, when we were very poor, and had 
even got into your debt. You were our only 
friends then. My first start in life, such as it 
was, began here, Lucy. ” 

“It is unsuited for you now, and we are un- 
suited for you too. ” 

“ How humble we are !” cried Reuben ; “and 
I am as poor as a church mouse still.” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


25 


‘John, what shall 


“You pretend to be.” 

“ Skeptical still!” he cried. 

I do now?” 

. Kiss, her again, said John, as he struggled 
with a refractory cork, and twisted himself into 
hideous contortions in his efforts to extract it. 

wid not have an y more of that fool- 
ery, said Miss Jennings, with intense acerbitv 
pervading her plain speaking. 

“I wouldn’t if she objects,” said John— “if 
she doesn’t see the joke of it. I don’t think anv 
body has ever kissed her except Tots. She’s not 
used to that kind of thing — she really isn’t.” 

John said all this in good faith, but his sister 
looked the sharpest of daggers at him, as well 
she might, perhaps. John Jennings was duller 
than his sister by several degrees. If she had 
not been brighter than he, they would have both 
been in Camberwell work-house long ago. 

Nothing seemed to distress or disturb the equa- 
nimity of Reuben Culwick. He was glad to get 
back, or he was one of the artfulest hypocrites in 
the county of Surrey. He understood these two 
better than they understood themselves, having 
taken the trouble to study and be interested in 
their eccentricities long ago. 

“ Well, you have sat up and kept a fire burn- 
ing for a man who was not expected, and John 
is coming out with his whisky like a prince,” 
said Reuben ; “ but you don’t ask me how I have 
fared in the county, what adventures I have had, 
what work I have done, what luck I have en- 
countered — not a word, upon my soul!” 

“ Don’t say that,” said Lucy Jennings, with a 
frown. 

“I beg pardon— I had forgotten,” said Reu- 
ben, deferentially. 

“ When you are tired— and you must feel tired 
after your long journey— you will find the supper 
laid in your own room, ” said Lucy. 

“ Thank you ; and till then ?” 

“Till then we shall be glad to hear how you 
have got on in Worcester,” she said, a womanlv 
curiosity exhibiting itself at last. “ We do not 
attempt to deny that we are interested in you, 
always interested in you, poor as we are.” 

“Yes, but don’t begin about your poverty 
again, please ; poverty may be a blessing in dis- 
guise, for what you and I and John know to the 
contrary,” said Reuben. “ The poorest and most 
afflicted woman was the happiest mortal whom I 
met in Worcestershire, and the richest and most 
prosperous man I found as miserable and mean 
as ever.” 

“Are you speaking of your father now?” 
asked Miss Jennings, anxiously. 

“Yes — the gentleman whom you talked me 
into visiting, prodigal son fashion, but who 
didn’t take me to his breast and weep over me, 
and order his fattest calf to be killed in my hon- 
or,” cried Reuben, a little bitterly. “I was 
humble and contrite, but he was as hard as 
nails ; and the whole experiment was a tremen- 
dous failure. Did I not say before I started 
that this would be the result ?” 

“Yes,” said John, “you certainly said that. 

I am very sorry — I am awfully sorry. What a 
funny man he must be !” 

“Extremely funny,” said Reuben Culwick, 
dryly : “you would die of laughing at his hu- 
mor.” 

“ Do you regret that you have offered to sink 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


26 

a bitter quarrel,” inquired Lucy Jennings, “ and 
to make peace ?” 

“No.” 

“You are glad that you have been to Worces- 
ter, are you not, despite this miserable result ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then the fault lies with him, as it did, be- 
fore you went, with you. And, Mr. Reuben,” 
she added, very earnestly, “you have one sin the 
less, I think.” 

“ Amen to that.” 

Lucy Jennings regarded him keenly, as if a 
suspicion that he was ridiculing her earnestness 
had suggested itself ; but Reuben Culwiek was 
grave enough. It was not always easy to guess 
when this strong, self-reliant man was in jest or 
earnest, but she gave him credit for being im- 
pressed by her demeanor. 

“ And this mortal, suffering much, and yet so 
happy — who was she ?” inquired Lucv. 

“Ah! there’s a lesson for you, Lucy,” said 
John Jennings, as he mixed the whisky. 

“Have I ever complained?” was the quick 
rejoinder. 

“ No, no ; I don’t say that you have,” answer- 
ed her brother, who was sorry that he had spo- 
ken ; “ you’re very patient, and nobody expects 
you to be jolly.” 

“ What kind of woman was she ?” asked the 
sister, turning to Reuben. 

“Old and blind, and in an almshouse,” said 
Reuben — “ my father’s eldest sister.” 

“She is provided for, then — her eyes are 
closed against the world’s wickedness, and she 
is spared many trials,” said Lucy, somewhat 
sullenly, as if jealous of one more afflicted than 
herself, as invalids are sometimes. 

“I have done a deal of work in the last fort- 
night,” said Reuben — “ written my special arti- 
cles on the Agricultural Exhibition for the Trump- 
et , earned an extra five pounds” (he did not add 
that he had tucked it under the pillow of Aunt 
Sarah’s bed), “ had my change of air and scene 
at somebody else’s cost, hunted up no end of re- 
lations, of whom I’ll tell you more presently, 
and am back again, all the better for my new 
experience.” 

“Take some whisky,” said John Jennings, 
pushing the glass across to him. 

“Thank you,” said Reuben. 

“And here’s good luck to all of us before 
the year’s over,” added Je'nnings, as he raised 
his glass in the hand which wanted a thumb to 
it. “Your health, Mr. Reuben; Lucy, yours.” 

Reuben said, “Thank you.” Lucy Jennings 
watched her brother tilt down his potent liquid, 
but did not respond to his kind wishes by so 
much as a nod of gratitude toward him. Her 
observation elicited a faint protest from her 
brother when he had set down his glass. 

“ I wish you wouldn’t stare at me quite so 
much,” he said, mildly; “you make me feel 
uncomfortable at times.” 

“You’ll take to drinking some day, if you are 
not careful,” said Lucy, in a tone of solemn 
warning. 

“May I not drink a glass of grog when my 
friend comes home?” he inquired, reproachfully. 

“A glass does you harm, and costs money — 
and you have no money to spare.” 

“ I shall have presently,” he said, nodding his 
head sagaciously. — “Mr. Reuben, I have been 


keeping some good news back till you came 
home — for good news doesn’t freshen up Lucy 
as it ought, I’m sorry to say.” 

“ I don’t remember to have had any good news 
in my life, except what is to be found there, and 
which you know so little about.” She jerked 
her hand in the direction of a large old-fashioned 
Bible en a side-table as she spoke. 

“ Ahem ! — yes — no ; but I wish you wouldn’t, 
Lucy, come down upon me on week-nights like 
this with Sunday conversation — when Mr. Reu- 
ben’s at home, too,” said her brother. 

“Well, the good news, John? — and then ‘to 
bed, to bed,’” said Reuben, a little impatiently. 

“The Royal Saxe-Gotha Gardens will open 
early next month, and I’m appointed pyrotech- 
nist,” John Jennings cried, exultantly. “ Fire- 
works every Monday and Saturday. I shall 
make a clear hundred and fifty pounds, my boy, 
before the year’s out. ” 

“ Oh, indeed !” said Reuben Culwiek, some- 
what listlessly; “but didn’t the Saxe-Gotha let 
you in last time ?” 

“And the time before too,” added Miss Jen- 
nings. 

“These are responsible people — first-rate lot, 

I hear,” said Mr. Jennings, confidently. 

“I am glad to hear it,” said Reuben; “but 
you must let me see to the business contract be- 
tween you this time. I’ll draw you up a safe 
one, and save a lawyer’s fee, John.” 

“ Certainly, Mr. Reuben, when it’s ready,” 
said John Jennings. “ I shall be only too hap- 
py ; for you’re a business man, with a keen head 
for contracts, which were never quite in my line 
— were they, Lucy ?” 

“ Never,” said Lucy, agreeing with her broth- 
er for the first time that evening. 

“Although I’m too old a bird to be taken in 
again, for all that,” added John, as he reached 
his pipe from the mantel-piece and refilled it. 
“Why, if they were to play me any tricks, I’d 
open an opposition gardens round about here 
somewhere, and ruin the lot of them. Hanged 
if I wouldn’t!” 

Lucy Jennings shrugged her shoulders at this i 
last suggestion, and Reuben’s mouth twitched 
at the corners. 

“I wouldn’t be in a hurry to do that, even if 
there were any opposition gardens to be discov- 
ered, John,” said Reuben, gravely ; “it’s a rash 
experiment, and wants energy and capital.” 

“He never had either,” added Lucy; “and 
as for the Saxe-Gotha, I wish it was burned 
down to-morrow.” 

“God bless me!” ejaculated Mr. Jennings, 

“ you don’t call that a charitable and Christian 
wish, surely?” 

“ I wish it was burned down to-morrow !” she 
repeated, fiercely; “it’s an evil place — it’s a — 
Oh, Elizabeth, you naughty girl!” 

“ What, Tots !” cried Reuben, holding out his 
arms, into which there ran, with pattering bare 
feet, a pretty flaxen-haired child of three years 
old, whose long night-gown did not hinder her 
rush toward him in any great degree. 

“Oh, me so glad you have come back, Reu- 
ben !” said the child, half laughing to begin with, 
and then wholly crying as a wind-up. 

“She’ll catch her death of cold!” cried Mr. 
Jennings. — “Tots, how could you come down 
like this ? Why ain’t you asleep ?” 


« u Y T said ~ y° u said,” sobbed the 
that he was coming home to-night. ” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


27 


child, 


Well, here l am, young one; don’t cry about 
it, murmured rhe big man, as his arms folded 
he child to his breast, and bis handsome brown 
beard hid her face from view, and tickled her 
terribly, for she struggled into a sitting position 
away trom it, and rubbed her face and eyes en- 
ergetically. J 


words which arrested her attention, and Tots sat 
up again. 

“ Where is it ?” asked'Tots. 

“ In my portmanteau at the railway station — 
coming home to-morrow, if Tots will go to bed 
now,” answered our hero. 

‘ And as big as dat ?” said Tots, opening her 
arms to their fullest extent. 

“Bigger.” 



“Elizabeth,” said Lucy, severely, “this is 
very wrong. Didn’t you promise to go to sleep ?” 

“I touldn’t,” answered Elizabeth. 

“Come with me,” began her aunt again, 
when Tots let forth so tremendous a yell of op- 
position that even Lucy, a woman not easily, put 
down, succumbed at once. 

“Let her be,” said Reuben Culwick, gruff- 
ly. Then there was a second pause, after 
which he whispered in the child’s ear a few 


“Me go to bed,” said Tots, with alacri- 
ty; “but,” she added, “oo must carrv me un 
tairs. ” 

“Of course I will. — Good-night, Uncle Jen- 
nings ; good-night, aunt; we’re off. both of us.” 
cried Reuben Culwick ; and he was out of the 
room and striding up stairs with the child before 
there was time for Tots to change her mind in 
any way. 

Brother and sister did not attempt to follow him. 


28 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


The brother sat and listened until the trampling | 
feet in the room above announced that Reuben 
had deposited his charge in her crib, and retired 
to his own apartments. The thin woman with the 
worn face turned toward the fire, fast dying out, 
and passed a hand across her eyes as if by stealth. 

“How fond he is of children!” said John 
Jennings ; “I think big men always are, Lucy. 
There was Topping — ” 

“ Don’t bother me about Topping,” said Lucy, 
fretfully. 

“Ahem! — no,” he said, with his feeble little 
cough prefacing his remarks again ; “ not if you 
wish it, certainly. Still, it’s odd.” 

“What’s odd?” 

“ That Reuben’s coming back should have put 
you out in this way.” 

“I prayed he might never come again.” 

“ Why, we couldn’t afford — ” 

“The man deserved better fortune than he 
can find here,” she cried, “and so I didn’t want 
him back. Besides, we don’t agree.” 

“Well,” said John, gravely, “ you and I don’t 
agree, for the matter of that, but still we’re com- 
pany for each other in our sulks.” 

“You never sulk as I do, when the evil in me 
gets the mastery,” said his sister. 

“ Why, Lucy, though I say it, and though 
you’re a bit hard at times, there isn’t a better 
woman in Hope Street.” 

“I wonder if there’s a worse,” said the wom- 
an, very mournfully. 

“You’re not often like this — you're generally 
so patient and quiet.” 

“I try to be.” 

“ Have you got any thing on your mind?” 

“Nothing that I should tell you,” was the un- 
civil reply. 

“Will you have a drop of whisky now ?” 

“No, I won’t.” 

John Jennings considered a moment, and then 
said, with an air of profound wisdom asserting 
itself, 

“ I’m sorry Reuben 'has seen you in this tan- 
trum, because I have often fancied that by-and- 
by you and he would get to like each other. He 
is a man who wants something to love — look at 
him and that child, for instance — and you’re not 
a great deal too old, and he’s not proud, and 
you’re — ” 

He stopped as Lucy Jennings swung herself 
round, a perfect virago in her last and worst at- 
tack of passion. He had never seen Lucy show 
off in this way before. Had she been at the 
whisky on the sly ? 

“John, you’re a fool!” she screamed; “you 
are the worst of fools to think like that, to talk 
like it. I marry him! He think of me! I 
tell you I hate you for saying this to-night!” 

John Jennings gasped for his breath. 

“ My dear, I’m sorry if I have hurt your feel- 
ings. If you don’t mind, I’ll go to bed.” 

She did not answer, and John Jennings, after 
passing his malformed hand over his forehead in 
a bewildered manner, went to bed accordingly. 

When she was sure that he was gone, the wom- 
an sank of a heap on the shabby hearth-rug, and 
buried her face in her arms, which she leaned 
upon the chair. It was a bitter grief, in which 
strange words escaped her. 

“Why has he come back? Why couldn’t he 
stop away for good ?” 


CHAPTER IX. 

“tots.” 

Long before Reuben Culwick had made up his 
mind to rise the next morning tiny knuckles had 
rapped significantly and persistently at his bed- 
room door. Reuben did not answer, although 
he smiled in his half-sleep, and knew that Tots 
was astir, anxious to see him, to hear his voice, 
to know all about the big doll that he had told 
her last night was coming home with his lug- 
gage. At the fifth or sixth summons, and when 
a Dutch clock down stairs was striking eight, 
Reuben Culwick condescended to inform the 
young lady on the other side of the door that he 
should be in his room in ten minutes, and that he 
requested the favor of Tots’s company to break- 
fast on that particular occasion, a piece of intelli- 
gence which took Tots with a tremendous plunge 
to the basement floor in search of Aunt Lucy, 
the only vestige of humankind to be discovered 
at that hour, John Jennings taking it easily till 
nine as a rule. 

“Me to breffast with Uncle Roo,” announced 
Tots, with as grave an air of importance as her 
excitement would allow. 

“Who says so?” asked Lucy Jennings, sus- 
picious of the truth of the statement. 

“ Uncle Roo says so.” 

“You’ve been bothering him — you’ve been 
knocking at his door, Elizabeth, after all that I 
told you,” cried Lucy Jennings, sharply. 

“On’y once or so,” said the child, with a self- 
excusing tone ; “lie’s ditting up fast, auntie.” 

Lucy Jennings indulged in a little lecture on 
the heinousness of the offense which Tots had 
committed, and then carried up stairs, and into 
the first-floor front, a high-backed infant’s chair, 
into which Tots insisted upon being securely 
screwed immediately, and set close to the side 
of the chair which awaited the presence of its 
master. Lucy Jennings was still screwing when 
Reuben Culwick entered the room, and bade her 
good-morning. 

“You’re spoiling the child ; you are letting her 
have her own way in every thing; you don’t 
know how to manage children,” remarked Miss 
Jennings. 

“ No, I suppose I don’t,” said Reuben ; “but 
the child knows how to manage me, and that 
comes to the same thing.” 

“ That’s a poor answer,” muttered Lucy. 

“ Befitting a poor sort of fellow. And" this is 
a poor little waif to whom much happiness is 
never likely to come — eh, Lucy ?” 

“ I don’t know ; I can’t tell,” answered Lucy. 

“ When she gets older and more curious, 
when the world’s before her, and we can’t help 
her in it much. Poor Tots!” 

The big man sat down by the child’s side, put 
his arm round her, and kissed her, and two lit- 
tle arms were flung impetuously round his neck, 
where they clung and clasped him. 

“Oh, Tots is glad oo’ve come back, uncle!” 
she said, with a sigh of pleasure, as she released 
her hold at last. 

“Really?” 

“Really and tooney.” 

“And what •would you have done if I hadn’t 
come back, Tots?” he inquired; “if I had 
stopped at my dear papa’s for ever and ever, as 
I warned you that I might ?” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ I would have come after oo.” 

“No, you would have gone to school with lots 
of pretty little girls, and grown up good in- 
stead.” 

“ I would have cried till oo come back to 
me. ”♦ 

“ That wouldn’t have been right, old lady,” he 
said, patting the child’s back. 

Lucy Jennings regarded the pair critically, al- 
lowed her gaze to wander to the breaktast-table 


were between Tots and the Jenningses down 
stairs. Tots was of the streets, and the warm 
heart of the stranger had plucked her from their 
desolateness some eighteen months since. He 
who could hardly afford to keep himself made a 
great struggle and a little sacrifice to keep her— 
to stand between her and the work-house, where 
the red hand of the policeman would have con- 
ducted her on the night Tots first appeared upon 
the stage of Reuben Cul wick’s life. 



in order to see that all was as the lodger re- 
quired, and then passed stiffly and angularly 
from the room — a woman who hardly under- 
stood the poetry of the situation upon which she 
closed the door. 

And yet there was some poetry, possibly some 
sublimity, in the strong affection which bound 
man and child together. Ties of kindred there 
were none between them, any more than there 


Tots, a ragged, unkempt, fair-haired, blue-eyed 
child, had been found on the steps of the Prince 
Regent public- house after twelve o’clock had 
struck, and the drinkers had been turned into 
the roadway. No one knew any thing about 
her, and she knew very little concerning herself. 
8he said something about mother and father in 
an inarticulate fashion common to her eighteen 
months of existence, and she cried for mother 


30 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


for five minutes after the policeman had shaken 
her from sleep in the shadow of the public-house 
doorway, and a few loiterers had gathered round, 
and gazed vacantly at her, and failed to recog- 
nize her as any one’s child with whom they were 
acquainted. It was a commonplace incident of 
poor neighborhoods, and such child life as this 
— there was nothing to marvel at ; children were 
always being lost, and taken to the station-house 
to be claimed, and to the work-house when un- 
claimed. The only novelty about this affair was 
the interest of the man with the beard, the man 
who lodged at the fire-work shop, in the stray’s 
forlorn condition. He had been striding to his 
home when the crowd arrested his attention, and 
when the child shrieked with fear at the police- 
man, as if her eighteen months had already taught 
her to dread the representative of law and order, 
he took her under his protection, and said that 
she should stay at the house in Hope Street, and 
be cared for till the morning. Tots clung to him 
as her friend already, and the policeman followed 
him to the next street, and booked the full par- 
ticulars in his note-book, in case of inquiries at 
the station-house, where Reuben Culwick had an 
idea that he would take the child the next day. 

But no inquiries were ever made concerning 
Tots, though Reuben advertised, and the police 
stations put up a bill on their blackboards along 
with their “Found Deads,” “ Burglaries,” and 
“ Murders,” and Tots was never passed over to 
the parish. When Tots was scrubbed and combed 
by Lucy Jennings, she was a bright specimen of 
babyhood enough, and in twenty-four hours she 
had forgotten father and mother, and taken so 
desperately to Reuben Culwick that the strong 
man never found it in his heart to set her from 
his charity again. It was a wild idea, the Jen- 
ningses thought— a foolish undertaking, to say the 
best of it — but they came to terms with the lodg- 
er for the extra trouble involved by the care of 
the child while he thought what was best to be 
done, until thinking over it became less of a hab- i 
it, and love became a stronger element in Tots’s 
favor, and pleaded for her till the day of which 
we write. 

For eighteen months had Reuben Culwick been 
the protector of Tots, and Tots had lived in a 
world of imaginary uncles and aunts, and there 
was never now a talk of her going away. Reu- 
ben had accepted an immense responsibility, and 
the weight of it had not oppressed him much. 
He had been a harder and sterner man before 
the child’s affection for him had changed his 
character a little— hence Tots in her way had 
not been wholly an incumbrance to her preserv- 
er, but a blessing in disguise. 

Sitting at the table watching her that day, 
with his life far clearer before him than it had 
been, he thought lots would be like a daughter 
to him if he lived — and if she lived. She was 
not a strong child, but he hoped that she would 
live to grow up and call him “father”— for had 
she been his own daughter she could not have 
taken a greater hold on his heart. He should 
never marry — he should never be able to afford 
to marry any body— but he would be able to 
take care of Tots until some respectable young 
fellow gave her a home and a name, and he was 
left alone to fight out the rest of his battle. 

What that battle was to be like, Reuben Cul- 
wick was hardly certain. He was sure of a few 


scars ; he did not look forward to any great de- 
gree of glory. He was not a despondent man, 
our readers , have already perceived for them- 
selves ; but he was scarcely sanguine as to his 
future for all that, and he had no ambitious 
dreams of becoming a rich man. Once he had 
thought that he was cut out for an author, that 
publishers would be running after him, and the 
critical press singing to his praise and glory ; 
but he was almost certain, not quite, that lie 
had found his level on the Penny Trumpet, and 
that a few pounds a week would be the maxi- 
mum sum which his abilities, such as they were, 
might be able to procure him. 

As for his prospects, for his chance of becom- 
ing his father’s heir, they had faded completely 
away now. He was pretty certain that he had 
given up every hope of that, that he and his 
hard father could not possibly agree any more, 
even before he had made up his mind to sink 
his pride and independence, and seek Simon 
Culwick at Worcester. 

After that meeting — which he had not con- 
ducted well, a strange young woman had taken 
the liberty of informing him — amen to all his 
day-dreams ! 

Tots and he were having breakfast together, 
and Tots was asking a hundred questions, after 
her usual habit, when the first post brought him 
in a bulky packet and two letters. Lucy Jen- 
nings brought them up stairs, and lingered in 
the room, glancing at the parcel and letters curi- 
ously. 

Reuben had long ago discovered that his land- 
lord’s sister was an inquisitive woman — he was 
not quite certain that she was not a suspicious 
woman also, despite her chapel-going and dis- 
trict-visiting — and that spirit of contrariety 
which lurks in most manly bosoms induced 
him to say, “Thank you,” and to place packet 
and letters unopened at his side. 

Lucy made some little show of dusting the 
furniture with the corners of her apron, and 
then went reluctantly toward the door. Reu- 
ben had not made a dash at his letters after his 
usual fashion, and imparted the general nature 
of the contents to those who were handy to re- 
ceive it ; and the attendant, half servant, half 
friend, said at last, 

“You are not curious about your correspond- 
ents to-day.” 

“ I can guess all about them.” 

“I dare say you can,” said Lucy, half disdain- 
fully ; “one’s from a woman at Worcester.” 

ii Worcester!” exclaimed Reuben, taken 
off his guard ; “ what’s wrong now ?” 

“You did not expect a letter quite so soon, 
then ?” ’ 

“Not I. Now, Lucy — if this should be a re- 
call ! ” 

“What a change to your life after this dreary 
street and us dreary people !” 

Reuben looked at her intently as he broke 
the envelope of his letter. She was out of sorts 
still ; he had not remarked it so much before, 
but she was certainly a disagreeable kind of old 
young woman, and particularly plain and thin. 
Hers was a hard life, keeping a house and a 
simple-minded brother in order, looking after a 
lodger and Tots, and not saving money after all 
her drudgery, but possibly getting into debt. A 
woman, too, to whom religion hardly brought 


the comfort or resignation that it should have 
done, and whom he would not attempt to tease 
t ough he might object at times strongly to her 
Poor old girf! what had sh fYo make 
life bearable even ? and why should he cross her 
tempers, and put her out for the day ? 

She writes a good hand,” said Reuben re- 

g *“ Who?” enVel ° Pe ° nCe more * ’ 

“The girl in gray silk.” 

I don’t know who the girl in gray silk is— 
1 n ,® vei : heard you speak of her before.” 

No, said Reuben, “I suppose not. She 
was at my father’s house yesterday morning, and 

W1 ? , she was ’ and where the deuce 
1. V d ? pped from - A pretty girl, too.” 
t 1 A. our father s second wife, perhaps.” 

No— I don’t think that. I’m sure not, for 
there was no wedding-ring, I recollect.” 

‘ lo u ; noticed her a great deal, it seems, Mr. 
Reuben.” ’ 

“ les, in my way. It’s my habit to take 
stock of every thing— how could I be a report- 
er, special and otherwise, without ? And she— 
Halloo ! 

“ You are asked to return,” exclaimed Lucy • 
your lathers heart has softened toward you 
and Heaven wills a happier time for you, as I 
said that it would.” 

You are very kind — but this is from my sec- 
ond-cousin Sarah.” J 

“Who’s she?” exclaimed Lucy Jennings, 
sharply enough now. 

u don,,: know yet,” remarked our 

hero. Why, what a deal I have to tell you 
and John and Tots still !” 

“So it seems,” Lucy Jennings muttered to 
herself. 

“You would like to know what this is about, 
perhaps, Lucy ?” Reuben asked, somewhat dryly 
“Not I— if it’s a secret.” 

“ I never had a secret in mv life.” 

“And it’s no business of mine. What’s the 
use of telling me or John any thing?” said 
Lucy, beginning to dust the books on a side- 
table near. 

“ Well, I’ll tell Tots.— Tots,” Reuben said, 
turning suddenly to the child, half buried in a 
large basin of sop, and hence very busy, very si- 
lent ? and very much besmeared with bread-and- 
milk, “ my second-cousin Sarah sends me her 
grandmother’s love, and the old lady’s thanks 
for a fourpenny-bit which 1 gave her, and the 
old lady s hope that she may live to spend it, 
and the old lady’s wish that I may hear soon, 
very, soon, of a nice situation for my second 
cousin, who adds, in pencil, ‘Don’t take any 
notice of this,’ in an independent way that’s pe- 
culiar to her habits. What an odd fish that girl 
is! She interests me.” 

“She is pretty too, I suppose?” said Lucy, 
with a twanging voice. 

“Ahem ! — I don’t know — I dare say she might 
be, if highly got up for the occasion. By-the- 
way, you might, with your extensive chapel con- 
nection, hear of something for Sarah.” 

“I can’t hear of any thing for myself,” was 
the short answer. 

“You!” 

“I’ve tried more than once — when John has 
put me out with his absurdities — when I have de- 
spaired of him, or of ever doing him any good.” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


31 


“But you hardly meant to leave him-r-that 
was a notion soon got over?” 

“ Well— yes— we’ll say so, if you like.” 

I shouid be glad to hear of something for 
onp win* a Singular young womanf but 

ldSr -ft T gh ST 0Ut Wel1 With a g00d s0ld to 

First ” ft le a'p lh ; at P °? r old woman > Sarah the 
*irst, added Reuben, thoughtfully, “may pass 

away at any moment, and I should like to be 
handy with a home for her ” 

“Why?” 


! ! 5 ecaus ® without a home she’ll drift, perhaps. ’ 
From right, you mean ?” 1 

u Ypc 1 f 1*0 


Yes— it is possible.” 

“ Is she so very weak, then ?” 

proper R^’ Weak ' She ° ant carr - v a portmanteau 

Lucy Jennings regarded Reuben Culwick with 
amazement, but he had fallen into thought, or 
had gi own tired of her want of sympathy, and 

?nnM d K int0 1 a i eStlng, / ggra y ating vein , which she 
could brook least of all his moods. She went 

from the room closed the door behind her, and 
then stood still. It was a habit of hers to pick 
up scraps of information thus-a bad habit, the 
lesult of insufficient training in her early youth, 
before her father blew himself to bits— and she 
kll f'm t , hat Reuben often talked strangely to Tots 
I here she has not waited for the second 
letter and thats very important to me, Tots.” 

Tots stared, and then dived into her sop again. 
Inis is a want-of-confidence letter, to bal- 
ance the confidence expressed in Second-cousin 
Sarah s affectionate epistle, Tots. This tells me 
politely what a fool 1 am— what a vain and am- 
bmous ass— what a driveling idiot-to expect 
sensible folk to waste money upon a fellow who 
writes for the Penny Trumpet .” 

Tots looked up at the word “trumpet?” it 
suggested another gift when the luggage came 
home. But Reuben was deep in his letter. 

^°^ s > h e said, more in soliloquy than 
to his little golden-haired companion. “Messrs. 
Press and Co.’s compliments, and regret that 
the novel which Mr. C. did them the favor, etc., 
etc., etc., is not suitable, etc., etc., etc., to their 
particular style of publication, etc., etc., etc., and 
with thanks for the favor of a perusal, etc., etc , 
etc., beg to return the same, etc., etc., etc., and 
they are the ass’s— the stupendous ass’s!— most 
humble and obliged Servants, Tots. That’s the 
third time of asking and refusing, Reuben,” he 
said, suddenly apostrophizing himself, “and you 
are uncommonly well used to this kind of thing, 
old boy ; but still you bore the Worcester disap- 
pointment better than this one— eh ? How’s 
that— after all your experience— you duffer ?” 

There was a long silence, and when Lucy Jen- 
nings was tired of waiting outside the door she 
went down stairs and about her own business. 
Reuben Culwick, with the publisher’s letter in 
his hands, sat and stared at the breakfast-cup, 
and was not aroused from his reverie to an active 
concern in minor matters until Tots, spoon and 
basin and chair, suddenly tilted over, and the 
prostrate young lady required much soothing aft- 
er her calamity. He did all the consolation him- 
self; he did not send for “Aunt Lucy.” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


, CHAPTER X. 

A PLACE FOR SARAH. 

Reuben Culwick settled down in his old 
groove the following day ; life went on with him 
steadily, and there was no shadow of discontent 
upon the path of his pursuing. His was an en- 
viable nature that made the best of tilings, that 
quickly adapted itself to circumstances, or sank 
all personal grievances beyond the ken of the 
watchful eyes about him. He was a philosopher 
who submitted complacently to the unalterable, 
or he was a hypocrite who disguised his bitter- 
ness of feeling with consummate ability, Lucy 
Jennings considered. She could not believe in 
a man who should have been rich, whose father 
was one of the wealthiest men in the fat county 
of Worcestershire, settling down to a Camber- 
well back street, and professing to be satisfied 
with his position. She was a well-meaning, 
thoughtful young woman, but she did not give 
Reuben Culwick credit for so much self-abnega- 
tion as that. She liked the man, but she disbe- 
lieved in his philosophy, and had grave doubts 
of his virtues; she had many grave doubts on 
most matters, and was suspicious concerning ev- 
ery body’s motives ; and yet she was a religious 
woman in her way, and put herself out of that 
way to be of service at times. She was as hard 
to understand as most folk too, and she made 
no effort to place herself in a clearer light with 
those who set her down for an eminently disa- 
greeable woman, which she was not exactly, 
though there were sour and sharp hours of which 
her brother and Tots were cognizant. Certain- 
ly she had not much faith in humanity, and Reu- 
ben’s equable temperament aggravated her more 
than she could account for. What was it to her 
how Reuben Culwick took the ills of life, or why 
should it distract her to hear him laughing pleas- 
antly, when he should have been crushed down 
by much mortification of spirit? He had noth-' 
ing to be thankful for, she sometimes thought, 
but his health and strength, and yet he professed 
to be happy — he who did not go to chapel, and 
kept out of the way when the pastor came to tea 
at Hope Lodge. 

He was of an easy disposition, apparently ; his 
mother, who had died in that house, had said so 
constantly ; and he had been constantly kind to 
his mother; but what a stubborn nature it must 
have been to hold aloof from the father so long, 
and what a proud man he must be, with all his 
forced humility ! thought Lucy. No, she could 
not understand him — did not even give him cred- 
it for his unselfish devotion to Tots. He knew 
more about Tots, and where Tots came from, 
than most people, she fancied. She was not go- 
ing to believe altogether in that story of Tots 
being found and adopted by him solely out of 
charity — she might as well believe every line of 
that rubbishing novel which he had written for 
gain and for fame, and which publishers were 
continually sending back with their respectful 
compliments, and they would much rather have 
nothing to do with it. He was a man with many 
good traits of character. She liked him, God 
knows, more than he would ever guess, more 
than she had ever liked a man, or should ever 
like one again — but she did not believe in him. 
Hers was a strangely dissatisfied and distrust- 
ful nature, and she could not set it aside for an- 


other. She did not even believe in herself, with 
or without good reason, as time may prove, per- 
haps ; she was as suspicious of Lucy Jennings as 
of the community about her, which constituted 
Lucy Jennings’s world ; still, be it understood 
that she was a thoughtful, well-meaning, pover- 
ty-stricken mortal, who would turn up a trump 
card when every body playing the game of life 
with her thought that she was out of trumps — as 
happened, for instance, four weeks afterward. 
It was the middle of June then ; Reuben walked 
in and out of Hope Lodge at uncertain hours, 
early and late, according to the Trumpet's claims 
upon his attention in town ; the fire-work-maker 
was busy at last, and the Saxe-Gotha Gardens 
had opened for the season, and were doing toler- 
ably badly. 

Reuben one evening had come home early 
and taken Tots for a walk, Myatt’s Fields way, 
where there were “British Queens” to be pur- 
chased for a reasonable price of the strawberry 
grower himself, in those days not very far re- 
moved from the present. Tots was fond of a 
walk with “ Uncle Roo,” and fond of strawber- 
ries during the progress of the journey, and this 
was one of the treats which the fine weather 
brought round, and to which Reuben was unself- 
ish enough to devote his attention when his time 
would permit. 

The big man with the beard, and the tiny 
child who clung to his hand and prattled all the 
way, were well-known figures over the open land 
that was still spared to suburban folk at Camber- 
well — father and daughter they were imagined to 
be by the strangers who met them by the way. 

“As if any one would walk about as much 
with a strange child as Reuben does with her!” 
said Miss Jennings, almost disdainfully. A clev- 
erer mind than her brother’s was that of Lucy 
Jennings, and yet poor, dreamy, soft - headed 
John had gone at once at the truth to which the 
other had closed her eyes systematically. “He 
is a man who wants something to love,” the fire- 
work-maker had said on the night of Reuben’s re- 
turn from Worcester; and Reuben Culwick loved 
little Tots, though he had never explained his 
feelings to any one, because she was as much 
alone in the world as himself, and wanted great- 
er care. 

Lucy Jennings met Reuben and Tots in Hope 
Street, returning from their walk. 

“ What a time you have been !” she said, pee- 
vishly. “Did you not say that you were coming 
home early this afternoon ?” 

“ I don’t remember.” 

“ I wanted you to write a letter before the five- 
o’clock post went out — the country post.” 

“ The country post ? What for ?” asked Reu- 
ben. 

“I have found a situation for that girl.” 

“ What girl ? Sarah Eastbell ?” 

“Yes. Didn’t you say, sneeringly and mock- 
ingly enough, certainly, that with my extensive 
chapel connection, I might hear of something for 
her?” 

“ I don’t remember my sneering and mocking, 
Lucy.” 

“ You said that it was likely she would drift 
away from right without a home, and thus it be- 
came my duty to try and do something — and I 
have been trying ever since.” 

“That’s very kind of you.” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


But my extensive chapel connection,” she 
continued, with bitter emphasis, “is, after all 
very poor, and fights hard for its bread— and dies 
fighting sometimes without it— and the chance 
to help any one does not come frequently.” 

“ And it has come, then — at last ?” 

“For your second cousin— if she’s not too 
proud. 

She is proud in her way, I fancy.” 

“You are all proud— horribly proud,” said 
Lucy “ Yours is the pride that apes humility, 
but it s none the less objectionable.” 

“I will not argue the point with you,” said 
Reuben, easily. “ Granted that I am as proud 
as Lucifer, what are you going to do for my sec- 
; ond-cousin Sarah?” 

“ The girl at the baker’s where we deal is 
silly enough to get married the week after next. 
There will be wanted some one to take her place, 
to weigh the bread, and put the right money for 
. into the till afterward. I have answered for 
the honesty of this second cousin of yours.” 

“Thank you,” said Reuben, thoughtfully. “ I 
wish there had been less publicity about the berth, 

\ and less of the till.” 

“ You can’t trust her!” 

“Yes, I can trust her, though I know so little 
about her. She has a good reference from her 
grandmother— she’s evidently warm-hearted, af- 
fectionate, and honest — any one can take care 
of that poor old blind woman now — and here’s 
an opening in life for one of my relations. It's 
not a swell berth,” he added, thoughtfully ; “but 
the Culwicks and the Eastbells are down on their 
luck, and Sarah’s plaguy poor.” 

“ You see that poverty's a plague, with all 
j your talk, then !” cried Lucy, quickly. 

“It’s a nuisance at times,” he added, dryly, 
“and no one objects to getting away from it, 
though it isn’t so hard to put up with as rich 
people fancy.” 

“Will you write to your cousin at once?” 

“ No ; I will write to my aunt — and Sarah will 
read it aloud to her,” heaanswered. “And now", 
Lucy Jennings, thank you for remembering the 
! girl.” 

“I don’t want any thanks.” 

“ Who knows but that I may hear of a situa- 
J tion for you one of these days — eh ?” 

“I’ll take it — I’m tired enough of Hope 
| Lodge,” she said, as she abruptly left him to 
! proceed homeward alone, taking sudden charge 
of Tots too, who was disposed to resist, until 
i Reuben said that he had work to do, and she 
must go with Aunt Lucy. 

Reuben Culwick wrote to Mrs. Eastbell that 
night, offering the situation to Sarah of which 
mention has been made, speaking of its advan- 
! tages as well as he could, of the opening to an 
i honest life, if not a brilliant opening, and inti- 
mating his wish that his second cousin would 
consider the matter, and let him know in due 
course. 

When he had finished the letter he sat with 
his hands in his pockets staring at it for a while, 
and with a slight contraction of his forehead as 
he gazed. 

“ What a poor lot we are !” he said ; “ what 
indigence it all is ! ” 

Lucy Jennings was right. He was hardly 
what he -seemed. He had his spasms of dissatis- 
faction, though his common-sense quickly got 

C 


33 

over them. He had chosen his own lot, and he 
would not mourn at the result. 

He posted his letter, and waited patiently four 
days for the reply, which he considered was' lack- 
ing at least in promptitude — Lucy Jennings said 
ingratitude. ’ 

The answer came at length, in a thick, sprawl- 
ing, downhill hand, which the blind woman might 
have written herself, and which was certainly not 
Sarah .Eastbell’s. It was an ill-spelled and ram- 
bling epistle that we need ®ot give word for word. 
It came hoping that Reuben was well, as it left 
the writer and Cousin Sarah at present, a.nd it 
thanked him for his thought of that cousin, who 
was a good girl, and would not leave her grand- 
mother under any consideration now. Sarah 
was very happy and contented where she was; 
but it might be as well for Reuben not to trouble 
any moie about what Mrs. Eastbell had said con- 
cerning a situation for her granddaughter. 

Ibis epistle put Reuben Culwick out a little. 
It annoyed him more than he cared to confess; 
it e\ en puzzled him. At variance as it was with 
the past anxiety of the old blind woman, and 
with the last letter to him, which had reached 
London almost as soon as himself, it was hardly 
the inconsistency of the whole affair which irrita- 
ted and bewildered him so much, as the mystery 
which seemed to hang about his second cousin's 
life. Why had she not written ? Why was there 
no expression of thanks from Sarah Eastbell for 
his thought of her ? Why had the grandmother 
altered her mind in so sudden and abrupt a fash- 
ion — she who was very anxious concerning her 
grandchild’s future when he had called at the 
almshouses of St. Oswald’s? He would go for 
a long walk, and consider the matter attentive- 
ly. When he wanted a good idea he always 
went from the fire-work-maker’s in search of it; 
it seldom came’ to him in that study front-room, 
but walking fast in the shade of the streets, or un- 
der the stars in the lonely road where the mar- 
ket-gardens and Myatt’s Fields were, he gener- 
ally contrived to overtake it. After all, he was 
an excitable fellow — “a fly-away man,” Miss 
Jennings said, when he seemed disposed to dash 
too rapidly at conclusions — a fault that was some- 
what prominent, considering what a philosopher 
he would like people to think that he was. 

He started suddenly for his long walk, with Sec- 
ond-cousin Sarah’s want of gratitude upon his 
mind. It was a gala night at the Saxe-Gotha, 
next door but two, and there was a heap of dirty 
boys and girls hanging about the front-doors, 
where a row of colored lamps indicated the 
places to pay before admittance was gained to 
the splendors beyond. He had to battle his wav 
through this little mob before he could put his 
long limbs into fair marching order, and then he 
was off at a swinging pace befitting his size and 
stature toward the Camberwell New Road, and 
the street on the other side of the way leading to 
the open ground and the railway arches that 
were cropping up over it. 

He walked so rapidly that in crossing the road 
he ran against a young woman, to whom he made 
an apology for his clumsiness, and who muttered 
back something in return, and then made so quick 
and sidelong a movement from him that his at- 
tention was directed toward her again. 
Second-cousin Sarah ! 

Was it, or was it not? Was he dreaming? 


34 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


Had he got the girl so deeply impressed upon 
his mind that his thoughts had conjured up her 
fetch ? Was it a figure born of his own fancies, 
or the shadow of a truth flitting by him in the 
dark street? No, it could not be — it was not like- 
ly — it was impossible ! 

Still he stood there looking after her — watch- 
ing her proceed down Hope Street as though she 
knew the place by heart ; and as she passed un- 
der the gas-lamp with her head very much bent 
forward, and a thin rtfg of a shawl drawn tightly 
round her, the black and white dress seemed 
even to the observant man in the background a 
familiar pattern, the alternate stripes of which 
he had last seen from the gateway of the alms- 
houses. A striped dress of black and white was 
no particular novelty, but he swung himself round 
on his heels, and marched slowly after the reced- 
ing figure — a man indisposed to believe in the 
coincidence, but determined to make sure that 
his fancies were based upon nothing more than 
a faint resemblance to his eccentric relative. 

“ Why am I troubling myself about this girl 
at all?” he said. “What am I to her? What 
is she to me ? Even if that were the girl sud- 
denly turning up in my own neighborhood, at a 
time when her grandmother would have me be- 
lieve that she was down in Worcester, what — 
By George !” he exclaimed aloud, “it is she !” 

The female in advance had suddenly paused 
on the pavement of Hope Street, injudiciously 
stopping beneath a second gas-lamp, and look- 
ing carefully and eagerly in the direction whence 
she had come, and as if to re-assure herself that 
no one was following at her heels. 

The expression on her countenance was the 
anxious and perplexed look which he had seen 
once before, as surely as he had seen that face 
in Worcester. There was no doubt of it; and 
he increased his pace at once. The young wom- 
an beneath the lamp-light wavered for an instant, 
and then ran for it ; and Reuben, not to be out- 
done this time, began to run after her. 

After a second hasty glance over her shoulder, 
and an unceremonious scattering of the boys and 
girls before the entrance to the Saxe-Gotha Gar- 
dens, the woman pursued darted into the estab- 
lishment itself, as if the sixpence for admission 
might constitute an insurmountable barrier be- 
tween herself and him who followed her, or as 
if he would not believe in any one with whom he 
was acquainted entering such a place as that ; 
but Reuben Culwick was in- hot haste still, and 
gained upon her rapidly. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE SAXE-GOTHA GARDENS. 

Reuben Cue wick lost time at the pay-office. 
He had no small change, and the sandy man in 
the cupboard on the right of the entrance took so 
extraordinarily long a time in findingtwo shillings 
in exchange for the half crown that he had tend- 
ered him, and in testing the quality of the coin 
before passing over the change, that Reuben al- 
most imagined that he was in a plot to impede 
his progress. Reuben did not know that shillings 
were as scarce at the feaxe-Gotha as orders were 
plentiful, and that five per cent, of the half 
crowns offered the proprietor — who took his own ^ 


money at the door, like a careful man as he was 
— were made from the pewter pots stolen at the 
“ publics” in the Walworth Road. 

He received his change at last, and passed 
along an avenue of stunted trees into the gardens, 
which he entered for the first time in his life, 
despite his proximity to the establishment, and 
the free admissions which were floating in the 
neighborhood. 

He looked round very keenly, but there was 
no trace of Second-cousin Sarah, or of the wom- 
an whom he had taken for her, and who had 
run away from him. The black and white striped 
cotton dress had faded into thin air, or was 
merged in the miserable crowd that was taking 
its amusement moodily. 

The Saxe-Gotha was not an extensive garden, 
but it was easy to lose sight of any one who had 
made up his or her mind to be concealed. The 
place was shady ; there were dark and circuitous 
paths between thick lilac bushes, at the back of 
a mouldy quadrangle of arbors, and the oil-lamps 
were burning dimly, and not too numerous. There 
was an effort to brighten up an orchestra, where 
four old fiddlers and one man with a flute were 
playing a waltz to funereal time, while a spangled 
mountebank was twirling on a slack rope for the 
edification of the public below him ; but the place 
was full of shadow, befitting the strange folk who 
had congregated there. 

Reuben was amazed at the poverty — at the 
squalid forms and stunted growth of the ha- 
bitues — at the boys and girls with faces that be- 
longed to people twice their age — at the obtru- 
sive coarseness and ribaldry of their remarks — 
at the hoarse laugh of the men, the shrill falsetto 
of the women— at the unmistakable viciousness 
stamped upon three-fourths of the hideous crew 
about him. He had known something of pover- 
ty, and he had seen, amidst the poverty which 
had confronted him, temptation and crime fol- 
lowing upon hunger and distress ; he had writ- 
ten more than one leader for the Trumpet on th§ 
question, but he was taken off his guard by this 
assemblage of the vices in the dull and dirty 
gardens of the Saxe-Gotha. His own appearance 
was an attraction, respectability came so seldom, 
and a face with an honest outlook upon it was 
so great a curiosity. There were human lynxes 
prowling about who scented prey, and some who 
scented danger ; and he had not stood there two 
minutes before as many eyes were fixed on him 
as on the acrobat, swinging round and round to 
the monotonous waltz music of the band. 

The white faces and the glittering eyes seemed 
to close round him by slow but perceptible de- 
grees ; he was a thing of wonder worthy of grave 
contemplation. Reuben was not alarmed, though 
the public curiosity was objectionable. He look- 
ed at the orchestra ; he glanced up at the acro- 
bat, who glared down at him as at a new patron 
of the arts, lured to the gardens by the report 
of the performer’s abilities, perhaps'; he lighted ' 
a cigar coolly and complacently, an operation 
which appeared to satisfy the curiosity of a few, 
who moved away ; he strolled from the crowd to 
a little grass-plot, where was a time-stained fount- 
ain a stone boy with a broken nose squirting 
a jet of water from a shell, with a row of paper 
lanterns within the basin, where some dips were 
flaring ; and he passed from the grass-plot to the 
extremity of the garden, where were John Jem 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


nings’s fire-works, a scanty collection of mal- 
formed objects reared upon high poles to give an 
idea of importance and magnitude, and waiting 
John Jennings’s pleasure to burst into smoke and 
flame. There was a figure crouching by the 
principal set piece, and Reuben went toward it 
and discovered his landlord in lieu of his cousin! 
. He would have backed away, but John had rec- 
ognized him. 

“Why, Mr. Reuben! what can you possibly 
want here?” he exclaimed, scrambling to his 
feet. ‘ ‘ Is any thing wrong at home ? Have you 
heard any thing about— about the Gotha— and 
come to tell me ?” 

“No ; what should I hear ?” 

“I was afraid — he! he! — that you’d got the 
tip that they were going to shut up, or suspend 
payment,” said John, with a weak little laugh : 
“you gentlemen of the press get news early 
sometimes.” 

“Have you heard any thing like that, then ?” 
asked Reuben, anxious for John Jennings, not- 
withstanding that he was still looking right and 
left for Sarah Eastbell. 

“N — no ; not exactly, but—” 

“John, they’re letting you in again,” cried 
Reuben, as he took him by the arm and walked 
him toward the light ; “this comes of your nev- 
i er showing the blackguards that contract which 
I wrote out for you.” 

“I should have offended them — I should 
have lost the work,” said John, feebly. 

“All the better, I should say, for they owe 
■ you money.” 

It was a fact easily guessed ; but John was 
taken aback, and gasped for breath. 

“A little — a few pounds. For goodness’ sake 
don’t let Lucy know any thing about it— she 
goes on so ! ” 

“ Yes, and you go off so, without her advice, 
and trust even these people.” 

“What are you looking round for?” asked 
John Jennings. 

“For a girl in a black shawl and a striped 
cotton dress.” 

“ Good gracious !” exclaimed John. 

“She came in here, and I followed her,” 
continued Reuben — “a pale-faced girl, with big 
dark staring eyes. Have you seen a girl like 
that about ?” 

“Hundreds — poor wretches!” 

“ Not a girl with a white, sorrowful face such 
j as she has. I am sure it was she.” 

“She— who ?” 

“Oh, never mind,” said Reuben, put on his 
guard at last ; “ this is the business of your first 
floor, private and confidential, and momentous. 
Not a word of this to Lucy.” 

He had suddenly remembered that Lucy Jen- 
nings would be prejudiced still further against 
Sarah Eastbell, if she had an inkling of the 
doubts which had beset him, and it was as well 
that Lucy should not know at present. 

“Yes, but—” 

“If you say a word I’ll tell Lucy how you’re 
• being done by the Saxe-Gotha.” 

“They’ll not do me much longer, I can tell 
them, ’’said John, excited by this warning. “I’m 
not the man to be imposed upon, or let my fire- 
works off much longer for nothing; that’s not 
like me ; that’s not the style of — Hallo ! look 
there! They’re all going off without me. I 


35 

thought they’d set ’em alight if I left them for a 
moment — they always do.” 

There was a fizzing and cracking and splut- 
tering from the fire-work ground, and much noisy 
laughter from the audience. The fire-works had 
been discovered in an unguarded position, and 
sportive youths had lighted them with bowls of 
pipes and ends of penny pickwicks, and a spon- 
taneous combustion was the result. 

John Jennings darted away, and Reuben Cul- 
wick moved restlessly about the gardens, scan- 
ning the pleasure-seekers, glaring into the ar- 
bors, looking down the dark avenues, and into 
the refreshment saloon — a long wooden shed, 
where no spirits were for sale, but where bottled 
beer and cider, apples, nuts, whelks, hot pota- 
toes, fried fish, and stewed eels constituted the 
principal stock in trade of the purveyors. 

But there was no sign of Sarah Eastbell— no 
black and white striped dress even to identify its 
wearer by. He lingered till the last — till the 
crowd streamed out in hot haste, fearful of the 
public-houses shutting up, and the sandy-haired 
proprietor had left his box, and was helping to 
blow out the oil-lamps in the flower beds and 
round the deserted orchestra. 

He left John Jennings and the proprietor talk- 
ing together of a speedy settlement of accounts ; 
he even heard John Jennings say that he was in 
no particular hurry for a day or two, and that he 
was sorry to hear that the gardens were so bol- 
stered up with orders that no one thought of 
paying at the doors ; and then Reuben went 
moodily back to his lodgings, certain in his own 
mind that Sarah Eastbell had seen him and 
avoided him. 

There was another Sarah Eastbell on his mind 
too — the old woman at St. Oswald’s, down in 
Worcestershire. What was she doing, prostrate 
and blind, without her nurse and without a 
friend?— his father’s sister, lying in the darkness 
of her malady, helpless and deserted— the old 
woman who had been kind to him when he was 
a boy, and when the Culwicks were all poor 
What of her? — and why had the girl run away 
from her? Well, well!— he was poor himself; 
he could not allow these people to oppress him 
in this fashion. He must mind his own busi- 
ness, and let the mystery die out. It concerned 
him not— it lay apart from his pursuits and life. 

He took up the current number of the Penny 
Trumpet , to refresh himself with an article of 
his own composition, and there an advertisement 
stared him in the face. “Cheap Excursion to 
Worcester, Malvern, and Gloucester.” A club 
association to start one day, and return late the 
same evening or early the next, for eight shil- 
lings, and no luggage allowed. Reuben counted 
his shillings carefully, looked up at the ceiling, 
and went into an elaborate mental calculation on 
the spot. Yes, he would go away again. 

The next day he was in Worcester, walking 
up the Tithing as if the place belonged to him. 


CHAPTER XII. 

AUNT EASTBELL IS STILL CONTENT. 

The ties of kindred were evidently strong with 
the man from whom all kindred held aloof, or 
Reuben Culwick would have never undertaken 


36 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


that journey to Worcester. Pie was a man per- 
plexed by a mystery, and he hated a mystery 
which he had no power to solve. He was a 
charitable man, it may be added, and the forlorn 
condition of old Sarah Eastbell impressed his 
mind more than he could account for. Hence 
he had darted off at a tangent, without any great 
regard to his ease or his savings, in the direction 
of Worcester, just as he had put himself out to 
visit the city some weeks since, and lodged at a 
principal hotel for the credit of the family name. 
That he was a prudent man was a matter of 
doubt. 

He passed through the gateway,, and entered 
the square court-yard, where he stood looking 
round him as if for his second-cousin Sarah, 
whose appearance seemed wanting to complete 
the picture. He would have been scarcely sur- 
prised to see her emerge from the door of her 
aunt’s room, and he would have been glad, de- 
spite the wild-goose expedition which he had 
undertaken. The sun was bright in Worcester 
at last, and the quadrangle was full of light. 
The morning was not quite gone, for the excur- 
sion train had started early from London, trav- 
eled rapidly, and, strange to record, had not run 
into any thing en route. 

The door of his aunt’s room was open, and he 
walked toward it, and entered the apartment, 
where all was as he had expected to find it. 
The old woman lay in her bed as he had seen 
her last, a quiet, patient, watchful woman, and 
there was no one with her. Surely it was only 
yesterday since he had called at St. Oswald's. 

• “ Who’s there ?” said Sarah Eastbell, sharplv, 
as he entered. 

“ Your nephew,” he answered, walking to the 
bedside. 

“From Hope Lodge, Hope Street, Camber- 
well? — Reuben Culwick?” she inquired, as the 
sealed-up eyes began to roll beneath the lids in 
their old fashion. 

“Yes. What a memory you have!” he re- 
plied. 

She stretched her hand from the bed in the 
direction of the voice, and Reuben took the old 
woman’s thin hand in his. 

“You bring me good news,” she said, “and 
I have been waiting for it. I am glad that you 
have come !” 

“I have brought no news, either good or bad, 
Aunt Eastbell,” he hastened to assure her, as he 
sat down at her bedside. 

“Oh! how’s that?” 

“ What good news did you expect ?” he asked, 
curiously ; and the old woman was a long while 
in replying. 

“I am always waiting for good news,” she 
said at last ; “ didn’t I tell you so when you were 
here in May? Good news of your father, for 
instance ; of his becoming better friends with you ; 
of his coming to this place to see the only sister 
he has left. Poor fellow, he must be dreadfully 
dull in that big house of his.” 

“You received my letter about Sarah?” 

“les. It was kind of you to think of her.” 

M here is she ? ’ said Reuben * Culwick, 
sharply. 

> Aunt Eastbell was endeavoring to deceive 
him, and he had not come more than a hundred 
and twenty miles to be hoodwinked by a blind 
woman. 


“Well,” replied Mrs. Eastbell, after another 
pause for consideration, “ she has gone away for 
a little change. She will be back soon.” 

“ Is she in London ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then who wrote me that letter leading me 
to believe that she was with you still ?” 

“Why, Reuben boy, you are cross about it! 
How’s this ?” and the thin hand groped its way 
toward him again. He rested his own upon it, 
and said, 

“There w r as an effort made to mislead me. 
Why ?” 

“Well, it saved a fuss,” Mrs. Eastbell con- 
fessed at last, “and as Sarah did not come back 
to answer your letter for herself, I got Mrs. Mug- 
geridge next door to write a line or two. But 
they were all our dear Sarah’s sentiments — Sally 
said, after you had gone, that she should never 
think of leaving me or getting a place till after I 
was dead. And as I mayn’t die for many years, 
what’s the use of worriting?” 

“Ay, what’s the use?” said Reuben, dreamily. 

“ It’s worrit that walks off with half of us. 
It’s a great mercy that I have never had any 
thing to worrit me, but have been easy and com- 
fortable all my precious life.” 

“What made Sarah leave you ?” 

“Why, Tom came back from sea.” 

“ Her brother ?” • 

“Yes, her brother — a fine, strapping young 
fellow, who has got on in the world— that’s the 
first Eastbell who has done that, Reuben. He 
came here to see me at once, the Lord bless 
him!” the old lady continued, “and insisted 
upon giving Sally a bit of a change before he 
went away on board ship again ; and the child 
wanted change, and they said looked ill, and so 
I persuaded her to go. I should have gone my- 
self for a bit of a holiday with them, only I 
haven’t been able lately to get about so briskly 
as I could wish. I’m not always flopping in bed 
like this, you know.” 

“ Ah — and she went away with her dear broth- 
er Tom ?” said Reuben. 

“Yes.” 

“ Has she written to you since ?” 

“ To be sure. There’s a letter of hers on the 
mantel-piece now.” 

Reuben Culwick walked across to the high 
mantel-piece, and took down a letter therefrom. 

“May I read it?” he asked, when the letter 
was in his hand, and the instinct of a gentleman 
had asserted itself suddenly. 

“ To be sure,” was the reply. “ Read it out, 
Reuben. I love to hear my Sally’s letters read 
over and over to me, till I get ’em by heart like. 
There’s a great deal of sense in Sally’s letters, 
and she’s a very clever gal.” 

The old lady crossed her hands over her chest 
in a monumental-effigy style, and lay there al- 
most as rigid and grim, until a fly settled on her 
face, when she made an impatient claw at it, be- 
fore re-assuming her position of attention. 

Reuben Culwick was in no hurry to read the 
letter aloud. To his surprise it was a letter ad- 
dressed to two persons, the second one being 
communicated with in lead-pencil at the top of 
the papei. Sarah Eastbell wrote a good hand ; 
at one time or another there had been some edu- 
cation given and made use of; the old woman 
had seen after her granddaughter when the fa- 


SEC0ND-C01 

ther who had seen after nobody, not even him- 
self, had been called to his account. 

Z)o7i t read this to grandmother , ” was writ- 
ten in lead-pencil, and in a fair flowing hand — 
quite a lady’s hand. “ Keep her as cheerful as 
you can without me. Let her think that I am 
coming back soon— that I am happy with Tom 
and that he is very kind. I can’t think of break- 
ing the truth to her yet that I can never come 
back any more. — S. E.” 

“Who reads the letters to you, aunt?” he 
asked, curiously. 

“Mrs. Muggeridge, or Mrs. Muggeridge’s 
niece— the niece generally, because the old lady 
stammeis dreadful, and puts me out in trying to 
listen to her. She’s a great age, and can’t help 
stammering, poor body !” she added, reflectively. 
“I ought not to be snappish with her. I shall 
be as old myselt some day, and have a mouth as 
full of plums, perhaps.” 

“Now why are all these people humbugging 
this poor woman ?” muttered Reuben, as he took 
a great handful of his beard into consideration 
with him. 

He had spoken very low, but Mrs. Eastbell had 
quick ears, and had heard something. 

“ We haven’t a bug in the place, Reuben ; but 
oh, the flies — they’re awful!” 

Reuben read aloud Sarah’s epistle to her grand- 
mother. It was a long letter, and full of a fancy 
picture of how she was enjoying herself with Tom, 
what a holiday hers w'as, and how kind her broth- 
er was to her. She concluded with a promise of 
being back in Worcester shortly, and a hope that 
her grandmother was not dull without her, and 
she was always her affectionate and loving grand- 
daughter, Sarah Eastbell. 

“There, don’t you call that a nice letter?” 
said the old lady, admiringly, when lie had con- 
cluded. 

“ A very nice letter indeed.” 

“Ah ! and she's a nice gal too. I try not to 
miss her, and not to feel lonely now she’s gone, 
but it won’t do quite. Will you just read that 
i letter again, Reuben, if you don’t mind ? I can 
almost fancy that she is here, and that she speaks 
to me with the old gentleness I know so well, 

I and — love so much ! So soothing like.” 

Reuben Culwick read the letter again, and it 
i was sufficiently soothing in this instance to send 
his aunt to sleep. He was sure that she was 
j! asleep by her regular breathing, and the silence 
; which followed the conclusion of his reading. 

Reuben Culwick stood by the mantel-piece, let- 
! ter in hand, endeavoring to read the story for 
) himself, and to understand the character of his 
; second cousin more clearly by its lines. Sarah 
j was away with Tom Eastbell, her promising broth- 
i er, who was getting on so well toward the gal- 
| lows, she had said herself, bitterly and scornful- 
1 ly. She had deceived the grandmother all her 
life, for the sake of the old woman’s peace of 
mind, and then she had deserted her. That last 
step was incomprehensible to him. Would old 
mother Muggeridge solve it, or old mother Mug- 
geridge’s niece? 

While he meditated, a very sallow face, chis- 
eled deeply with ridges, peered round the room 
door, and two greenish eyes blinked at him 
through spectacles with wide horn rims. 

“Oh! I beg your pardon — are you the new 
doctor?” said the head. 


I’SIN SARAH. ~ 7 

O i 

The voice did not arouse Mrs. Eastbell, and 
Reuben crossed the room cautiously, and backed 
this new old lady into the quadrangle. 

“How do you find yourself this morning 
Mrs. Muggeridge ?” he said. 

“Terribly badly, thank you, Sir,” said the 
lady— as thin and small a woman as could possi- 
bly live, but evidently as agile .as a grasshopper 
— “ and how’s that poor old soul to-dav ?” 

“ Cheerful — hopeful. ” 

“Ah! it’s a wonder how she does it,” said 
Mrs. Muggeridge, speaking so thickly that Reu- 
ben lemembered all about the plums at once; 
“but then she hasn't got my spasms. Your 
w 01 thy piedecessor, she said, shaking her head 
so energetically that Reuben stood on guard, 
perfectly prepared to catch it, if she shook it off 
along with her spectacles, “said I must bear 
them as well as I could. That’s very fine ad- 
vice fiom a man who has never had spasms in- 
side him which I trust may not be your case 
either, Sir.” 

“ Thank you.” 

“For these awfful spasms of mine — ” 

“One moment, Mrs. Muggeridge,” Reuben 
hastened to explain: “I am not the new doc- 
tor — but a friend of Mrs. Eastbell’s.” 

“Oh! indeed.” 

“And I want you or your niece to tell me 
about Mrs. Eastbell s granddaughter — where she 
has gone, and why she has gone. ” 

“My niece!” said Mrs. Muggeridge, shaking 
her head again, “ah ! that’s a little trick to keep 
that poor old soul going a bit till we take her off 
to the cemetery — which can’t be very long now. 
The young lady thought it would be the better 
plan not to tell her any thing.” 

“What young lady ?” 

“She who comes once or twice a day now — 
just to see her. Why, here she is, to be sure!” 

Reuben turned and looked toward the gate- 
way, where from the shadows into the warm sun- 
shine beyond stepped the young lady whom he 
had seen first in his father’s house. 


CHAPTER XIII. 
sarah’s absence is explained. 

Reuben Culwick’s astonishment was great, 
but the young lady’s surprise was still more 
strongly marked, upon perceiving who it was 
standing in the court-yard of St. Oswald’s. She 
stopped, clasped her hands together, and then 
came on again, with two large clear eyes dis- 
tended. 

“Mr. Culwick!” she exclaimed; “you in 
Worcester!” 

“Yes — it is remarkable.” 

“You have repented — you are going to your 
father ?” 

Reuben shook his head, and smiled a little. 

“ I told my father that I would not come again 
to Sedge Hill until he sent for me, and I shall 
never break my word.” 

“Yes, you are a foolish fellow,” she said, look- 
ing at him, “ and almost as strange a man as 
your father is. Are you still living down that 
wretched street in Camberwell?” 

“ I can only afford to live in wretched streets,” 
was the reply. 


38 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“What has brought you to Worcester?” 

“An excursion train.” 

“You know what I mean,” she said, techily — 
“ what errand ?” 

“To see Aunt Eastbell,”he replied, “and to 
discover, if possible, the mystery of my second- 
cousin Sarah.” 

“What has Aunt Eastbell or your second 
cousin to do with you ?” she asked. 

“They are my relatives — I am more interest- 
ed in them than I can explain. May I ask in 
return what Aunt Eastbell and my second cousin 
have to do with you ?” 

“I am interested in them more than I can 
explain,” was the arch answer — “ that’s all.” 

“I wish to Heaven you would explain some- 
thing. Who are you, to begin with ?” 

“Ah! that’s not worth elucidation,” she said, 
after a moment’s silence. “ If I tell you that 
my name is Holland, will that make the position 
any clearer ?” 

“It might,” said Reuben, quickly. “ My fa- 
ther wished me to marry a Miss Holland once, a 
young lady whom I had never seen, and whom 
I was to take upon trust. Are you the lady ?” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

She dropped one of those odd little ironical 
courtesies which had bewildered him before that 
day, and he regarded her with great attention. 
This was the lady, then, on whom he had turned 
his back, about whom he had quarreled with his 
father, and to avoid whom he had gone to his 
mother’s home, and the poverty on which that 
mother had prided herself. Why had the moth- 
er forbidden the match in eager haste ? 

“And have you married my father instead of 
me ?” he asked, satirically. 

‘ ‘ I would not marry either of you for twice 
your father’s money,” she said, frankly, rather 
pertly, Reuben considered. “I am simply his 
housekeeper, at a housekeeper’s wage. My fa- 
ther was his best friend, and your father has 
been kind to me, in his odd way, since my fa- 
ther’s death.” 

She would come into all his father’s money, 
he was sure. Well, it was probably in good 
hands, he thought ; and the expression on his 
face must have been somewhat peculiar, for she 
read part of it at least. 

“But he will not leave me any of his fortune. 

I am not to build upon that in any way.” 

“ He has told you so ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You will be thrown on the world without 
any compunction, for Simon Culwick has a bad 
habit of keeping his word, Miss Holland. ” 

“Yes, that’s the worst of it.” 

He thought that she was returning sarcasm 
for sarcasm, but he was not quite certain, she 
kept so demure and grave a countenance. 

It was a singular position — those two whom 
the father had wanted to bring together, and 
whom his own stubbornness had set asunder. 

“And now,” said Reuben, returning suddenly 
to the object which had brought him to Worces- 
ter thus early, “will you try and explain whv 
} ou are interested in Aunt Eastbell, to begin 
with ? why the girl who has deserted her corre- 
sponds with you ?— why you pass yourself off as 
the niece of that old woman who has left us ?” 

“I’|l work backward, if you will allow me,” 
she said. I call myself Miss Muggeridge be- 


cause the name of Holland is familiar to your 
aunt, and I don’t want more explanations than 
I can help in this place ; the girl corresponds 
with me because she knows that I read her let- 
ters to her grandmother, and that I am the 
grandmother’s friend while she is away ; I am 
interested in Mrs. Eastbell, and feel for the utter 
loneliness in which she is left by her friends. I 
have been interested in Mrs. Eastbell for some 
years now, for the matter of that. ” 

“ Indeed ! and her granddaughter, Sarah East- 
bell, also ?” 

“Of late days — a little. She was not very 
gracious to me — she never cared to see me here. 
When she got into trouble, she thought that she 
would make me her confidante, but it was too 
late.” 

“When she got into trouble!” echoed Reu- 
ben ; “ what trouble was that ?” 

“Come with me, and I’ll show you.” 

She led the way out of St. Oswald’s into the 
Tithing, crossed the road to the corner of the 
street leading to the prison, and pointed to the 
wall, on which several bills were posted. One 1 
was to the effect that a reward of five pounds 
was offered for the apprehension of Sarah East- 
bell, late of Worcester, who had conspired with 
others for the unlawful issue of spurious coin, 
and who was last seen in the town at the end of 1 
May of that present year. 

Reuben stared with amazement at the placard. 
“It is well that the old woman is blind,” he 
murmured. “I did not think it was so bad as 
this.” 

“ Neither is it.” 

“You mean that — ” 

“That her brother is at the bottom of it. 
You don’t know what a scamp he is, I suppose?” 

“I have had my suspicions.” 

“ This Tom Eastbell gave her the money, I 
believe. She offered a sovereign in all good, 
faith ; it was detected as false coin ; she was 
asked where she lived, and how she became pos- 
sessed of it ; and she took fright and ran away. 
They found out presently her name and address, 
but she had left Worcester.” 

“Is she with her brother?” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s bad.” 

“ She w r rote to me, without giving her address, 
stating that she must remain with her brother 
Thomas for a while. He w r as in business, and 
was taking care of her. She left Grandmother 
Eastbell in my charge, she said. It’s a respon- 
sibility,” she added, “but I have accepted it.” 
“You are very kind.” 

They walked back together to the almshouses. 
When they were in the court-yard she said, 

“ Have you come all the way to Worcester to 
find out the truth of this ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Your second cousin must have interested 
you very strangely.” 

“ Yes,” he responded. “I saw, as I thought, 
a strong, self-reliant, earnest nature by the side 
of that old woman’s. I saw much sacrifice of 
self in one w r ho might have grown up very self- 
ish, and it was a character that deeply interested 
me.” 

“There were good points in Sarah Eastbell— 
there are now, for that matter. But she is in 
bad hands. ” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH 


39 


“ I fear so.” 

“If you could find out where she is, it might 
be possible to save her.” 

“ I saw her Iasi night.” 

“Where?” 

Reuben related the story of his discovery of 
Sarah Eastbell, of her flight from him, and the 
way in which he had lost her in the gardens of 
Saxe-Gotha. Miss Holland reflected for a few 
moments ; then she said, 


the scamp who had brought his sister into diffi- 
culties, who had caused her to fly from Worces- 
ter in order to escape the charge of uttering base 
coin — in all probability to escape the jail ? 

“If that’s Thomas Eastbell, Sarah is easily 
found.” 

“ But not easily rescued.” 

“ I will make the attempt,” said Reuben. 

On the following evening Reuben Calwick was 
in the Saxe-Gotha Gardens again, waiting pa-' 



• 4 1 wonder if her brother performs there ?” 

“ is he a performer, then ?” 

“An acrobat at times. When he was first in 
Worcester prison, he was arrested in his tumbler’s 
dress.” 

“In prison — an acrobat!” 

Reuben Culwick remembered at once the tum- 
bler who had been spinning round on the slack 
rope at the Saxe-Gotha when he had first enter- 
ed the gardens. Could that be Tom Eastbell, j 


tiently for the appearance of Signor Vizzobini, 
who had postponed his departure for Turin for 
six nights, by special request of the nobility, gen- 
try, and public in general, and who was an- 
nounced to appear every evening at half past 
nine, in his highly graceful and artistic enter- 
tainment, as performed before all the crowned 
heads of Europe, to the immense delight and 
manifest satisfaction of every crowned head 
among them. 


40 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SIGNOR VIZZOBINI. 


The Saxe-Gotha Gardens were not doing well. 
Even the re-engagement of Signor Vizzobini had 
not aroused the locality to enthusiasm. The peo- 
ple had grown tired of the Saxe-Gotha, and even 
the orders were slow in coming in ; the dancing 
license had been suspended that season also, and 
the patrons and patronesses of the gardens found 
it dreary work promenading round the refresh- 
ment shed, and the stone boy with the everlast- 
ing squirt. 

It was a terribly dull evening, even for the 
Saxe-Gotha, Reuben Culwick discovered, when 
he had entered for the second time on what the 
programme informed him was a fairy tableau of 
surpassing brilliancy and splendor ; seen under 
the aspect of a damp and drizzling night, the 
brilliancy was impaired and the splendor was no- 
where. The orders, that had been most freely 
circulated in the neighborhood, in the hope that 
free admissions would drink a little when they 
did come, had not responded gratefully to the in- 
vitation ; and there Avas but a sparse representa- 
tion of humanity, which huddled itself under -the 
broad eaves of the shed, and stared dismally at 
the wet trees opposite. The lamps had not been 
all lighted, after the proprietor had discovered 
that the receipts at the doors would not cover the 
consumption of oil and candles ; but the band 
that was paid by the week, was permitted to play 
on along with the fountain, which, as the col- 
lector of water-rates had threatened to cut off the 
supply in a day or two, was going it most vigor- 
ously. 

It Avas a more respectable evening than ordi- 
nary, owing to the scanty attendance. The im- 
mense army of the disreputables haunting the 
shady corners of South Eondon was shy of the 
open air when rain Avas falling— uncleanness and 
squalor hated getting wet, and found a difficulty 
in getting dry again, Avith no change of clothes 
to speak of ; hence a few specimens of honest 
indigence, yearning for any contrast to close al- 
leys and fetid rooms, had found their way to 
Hope Street. It had been announced as a iuA 7 e- 
nile night also, with the fire-works at an early 
hour; and a few intrepid mothers had brought 
babies in arms and young children to the spec- 
tacle, and Avere indignant at the announcement 
written in text-hand, and affixed Avith red wa’ 
fers to the trunk of a tree, that “in conse- 
quence of the inclemency of the weather, the pv- 
rotechmc display by Mr. Jennings is postponed 
till the next gala night.” Still there was music 
in the orchestra, and Signor Vizzobini would ap- 
pear in due course ; and what there was of audi- 
ence Mr. Splud, lessee, counted fifty-two Avith 
the babies in arms-kept to the shelter of the 
lilac bushes or the refreshment shed, or dragged 

in e the a pX tU1 ' 0US ™ y thTOUgh the P uddles lying 

Reuben Culwick stood under a shady tree, 

Woh S ' ^ Uh a ^ lpe m his mouth > an old blue 
scotch cap drawn down to his eyebrows, and a 

rhistlvfrf’ ?? itS shin ? colhr turne d up 
to h s eais, he looked more in tone Avith the as- 
semblage than he had done on the occasion of 
ms extempore visit two nights since. He had a 
hope that m this guise he should not attract any 
notice , but although he evaded a portion of it, 


there were curious eyes fixed o* him now and 
then, and one mind perplexed by his appearance. 

That one mind, represented by no less a per- 
sonage than the lessee himself, directed its par- 
ticular attention to him about a quarter to nine 
o clock. Mr. Splud had given up expecting a 
further influx of company by that time, and had 
put his head gardener— lie had one gardener and 
a little boy to attend to the grounds during the 
season at the pay-office, while he mixed in a 
friendly way with the company. He was a tall, 
lank man, Avith sandy hair, and a melancholy 
aspect : keeping gardens open under difficulties 
had quenched every atom of cheerfulness in him. 
He had two bead-like eyes, which he had a hab- 
it of rolling into their corners and looking out 
of them sidewise at the object which he desired 
to inspect, that gave him a somewhat sly appear- 
ance also ; and this was remarkable as he took 
his stand under the tree Avhere Reuben was, and 
smoked and expectorated as vehemently as if he 
had a match against time on. 

“This is a bad night for our business, Sir,” 
he said at last. 

Reuben had anticipated that the proprietor 
Avould burst into conversation, and Avas' disposed 
to encourage it. 

“ So I should think,” answered Reuben. 

“Rain always keeps the people away: no 
matter what you offer them in the way of at- 
traction, they Avon’t come, Sir.” 

“No — they evidently Avon’t come,” echoed 
Reuben. 

“ You must not take this evening, or the last 
evening on which you favored us,” said the pro- 
prietor, startling Reuben a little by the remark 
“as a sample of the general style of patronage 
we get. ” 1 6 

“ No ?” said Reuben, interrogatively. 

“JEhaye known fifty thousand people here.” 
That’s a very fair number, I should say,” 
Reuben remarked, dryly. * 


“Yes, pretty fair ; but Ave ought to have them. 
It s a nice, cool place.” 


Reuben was shivering to the marrow, and in- 
stantly agreed Avith him. 

“ And Avhere are the people to go, if they 
don t come here ?” asked Mr. Splud. 

Reuben could not imagine. He had never 
thought of that. 

1 eople in this part of London, I mean,” he 
added, more modestly, “although we have hun- 
dieds of West End SAvells, who come to look 
about them, like yourself, Sir.” 

Here the eyes remained so long in the corners 
nearest to Reuben that Reuben Avas afraid that 
Mi\, Splud s vision had become permanentlv fixed. 

Unless you are looking for any body m par- 
ticular— as may be the case, you know— and per- 
•Pf* ca ? hel P you,” suggested Mr. Splud. 

I hank you,” said Reuben. 

There was a long pause, and then the propri- 
etor said, sloAvly, * v 

“ In the police, I think ?” 

“No— not in the police.” 

You haven’t come from Blater’s, I suppose?” 

♦n °r R u eubai ? had not come f rom Blater’s, 
though who Blater was he was never curious 

Probably some one who had 
lent Mr. Sp ud money or goods, for a sigh of 
lelief struggled from the lessee’s narroiv chest. 

Because I have seen you someAvhere, and 


SEC0ND-C01 

that is what bothers me a bit,” said Mr Splud 
by way of explanation and apology for his nu’ 
merous questions. 

Reuben did not tell him that he was lodging 
next door but one, and that they had passed 
each other in the street with tolerable frequency • 
but the idea had suggested itself to put a few 
questions on his own account, and even to throw 
an air of mystery, even a detective policeman’s 
air ot mystery, over his inquiries, when a third 
person, smoking a short pipe, joined them. The 
new-comer was a small spare man, in a long 
seedy great-coat, with big horn buttons, extend- 
ing from his chin to his heels, and who wore a 
dirty yellow handkerchief tied loosely round his 
throat. He was a man of an unearthly pallor, 
and pitted so deeply with small-pox that one 
wondered how he had ever struggled out of the 
disease alive. It was an unpleasant face to re- 
gard closely, and the red ferrety eyelids, and 
the small sunken black eyes, did not redeem in 
any way the general ugliness of the new-comer. 
He came up with his hands and half his arms 
thrust in the side pockets. of his coat, and talked 
to Mr. Splud, with his little eyes regarding Reu- 
ben Culwick from their corners in the lessee’s 
own peculiar way. 

“ You don’t want me to-night, I suppose?” he 
said to the proprietor. 

“ Yes, I do want you!” 

“What for?” 

“ Because I pay you,” said Mr. Splud, sharp- 
| ly. “You don’t want your money next Satur- 
day, I suppose ?” he asked, with so much biting 
I sarcasm in the question that he showed every 
yellow tooth in his head — and uncommonly yel- 
low they all were— at the gentleman whom he 
addressed. 

“Yes, I do — and I’ll take care I get it,” said 
the other, far from civilly, “along with last 
| week’s.” 

“ Well, I wish you may get it— but you’ll have 
to do your work for it.” 

“What’s the use of dressing up, and a-per- 
i forming in the blessed rain”— he did not call it 
i blessed rain, however — “before nobody. There’s 
nobody here, there’s nobody coming— and it’s a 
i beastly shame on me.” 

“The gardens are open — the public expects 
! to he amused,” said the lessee, grandiloquently, 
“and it is not the mission of Samuel Splud to 
break faith with the public. If there were only 
one child in the gardens on this unfortunate ju- 
venile evening, and that child were fast asleep and 
clasped to the fond bosom of its mother, I would 
carry out the programme in its entirety, or per- 
ish in the attempt to do my duty to my patrons. 

It is the knowledge that I keep faith with the 
I public that renders the Saxe -Gotha the most 
popular place of recreation on this side of the 
! Thames.” 

The man marked with the small-pox opened 
his mouth in amazement at this long address, 
and turned suddenly to Reuben at its conclusion. 

“You’re going to take the crib off of his hands, 

I see — buy him out, and his good-will and fix- 
tures and all ?” 

Mr. Splud appeared to be annoyed at this, and 
said, 

“ If the gentleman has any idea of that kind, 
he will talk to me, not you. ” 

“I have no idea of purchase,” said Reuben; 


SIN SARAH. 41 

and if I have the honor of addressing Signor 
Vizzobini, I may add that I have come here this 
evening expressly to witness his performance.” 

Have you, though?” said the acrobat, once 
more surprised, and in an extraordinary degree 
by this explanation. “Good Lord!” ’ 

“You may well be astonished. I am,” said 
Mr. Splud, solemnly again. 

“ Well, if you can’t let a fellow off, I’ll go and 
dress, said Yizzobini ; and after another sharp 
glance at our hero, he walked away in deep 
thought. J 

“I think you said that you were not in the 
police, Sir ?” said Mr. Splud, with great urbanitv. 

“ Certainly not.” J 

“The same idea has suggested itself to my 
employe, at all events, and you have rendered 
him extremely uncomfortable, but it serves him 
right. He’s an ill-tempered, hateful, insolent 
cur, and, Heaven be praised, next Saturday sees 
the last of him.” J 

“ He will leave the gardens, perhaps ?” 

“I wish he would. It would be breach of 
contract, and I should not pay him a farthing.” 

Reuben moved toward the entrance gates, and 
Mr. Splud laughed for the first time— laughed so 
heartily that it was evident that it was only bad 
luck that kept his spirits at zero. 

“ Oh, not in the police at all — certainly ng^,” 
he said, knowingly ; “ but you need not be af$nd 
of losing your man. He has gone into the room 
under the orchestra to dress.” 

Reuben returned to his place beneath the tree, 
and Mr. Splud once more joined him. 

“ What’s the case — murder or burglary or pet- 
ty theft ? They are all three in his line, I fancy.” 

“ Do you know any thing of him ?” 

“Only that he is a. vagabond not up to his 
work,” said Mr. Splud. “I took him by adver- 
tisement, on the faith of his recommendations, 
which I firmly believe now are forgeries. He has 
fallen off three times this week, and if he breaks 
his neck one of these fine days, it will be a hap- 
py release to the profession. I sha’n’t go into 
superfine black for him myself,” he added, vin- 
dictively. 

“ Why did you re-engage him?” 

“ I didn’t, Sir. It was all in the first contract 
— only it became necessary to puff him. Raney 
a man of my attainments reduced to puffing that 
brute!” and here a real tear made its appearance 
at one of the favorite corners of his eyes, and 
trickled forlornly down his cheek. 

“ I haven’t been used to this kind of thing,” 
said Mr. Splud, by way of apology for his weak- 
ness ; “I have been in a large way of theatrical 
business — real horses — legitimate drama — over 
the water, Sir.” 

“ What is that man’s real name?” asked Reu- 
ben. 

“ I haven’t the slightest idea ; Jack Sheppard, 
perhaps. ” 

“You know his address, surely ?” 

“Oh yes. No. 2 Potter’s Court, Walworth 
Road.” 

‘ 4 Thank you. Good-night. ” 

Reuben Culwick was gone. Even Signor Yiz- 
zobini observed it when he was sitting astride an 
uncomfortably wet rope, with the rain pouring on 
his fleshings and .spangles, and the band wheez- 
ing out its melancholy old waltz. Signor Viz- 
zobini looked down at the lamps and scanty audi- 


42 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAII. 


ence, and at the lessee standing opposite sneering 
at him ; but of the stranger, lured to the Saxe- 
Gotha by the report of his abilities, there was not 
a sign. Vizzobini’s feelings were hurt, for he 
muttered, “What a liar!’’ before commencing 
his performance, which he hurried through in 
such indecent haste that Mr. Splud was more 
than ever disgusted with his contract with him. 


CHAPTER XV. 

FOUND. 

No. 2 Potter’s Court, Walworth Road, was 
'somewhat difficult to find ; but, by aid of a few 
inquiries from the police, Reuben Culwick dis- 
covered it among a nest of little streets half-way 
toward the Elephant and Castle. 

Potter’s Court was not a cheerful thorough- 
fare at that time of night, and it required a fair 
amount of nerve — which our hero did not lack, 
however — to descend three or four broken steps 
at the entrance, and dive into the darkness that 
stretched beyond them. 

The gas-light at the top of the steps, down 
which the indiscreet traveler and the tipsy tenant 
of Potter’s Court were continually floundering, 
shed but little light upon the first few yards of 
the way, and was of no service at the extremity 
of the passage, where, it was rumored, murder 
had been done once, with no one the wiser till 
the morning. 

Potter’s Court, Walworth Road, bore an ugly 
name, and its lank, dingy tenements were full of 
“ugly customers.” There were all degrees of 
ugliness — the hideous and variable ugliness of 
crime— in Potter’s Court, and but a few speci- 
mens of honest industry, or of poverty rendered 
respectable or heroic by its struggle to keep out 
of the work-house. The “dangerous classes” 
had the place pretty well to themselves, and 
were called for frequently by enterprising gen- 
tlemen with numbers on "their collars ; it was a 
thoroughfare with a brand upon it — a jungle 
where the wild beasts of the streets herded to- 
gether, and shunned the light after the habits of 
their kind. 

Reuben Culwick knew nothing of Potter’s 
Court ; but he muttered, “ Poor Sarah !” as he 
went down the cavernous entry in search of 
No. 2. 

There were several lodging-houses in the court, 
with “Beds, Threepence per Night,” written 
over the front-door, although the hour was too 
late to read the inscriptions ; but No. 2 was a 
private house in its way, with a family on each 
floor, and the door left open for the convenience 
of the tenants’ ingress and egress, like a house in 
a Glasgow close. 

Reuben knocked at the parlor door with the 
handle of his stick, and a grim-looking individu- 
al in his shirt sleeves answered the appeal, and 
stood with a light in his hand glaring at the in- 
truder. 

“What’s up?” he said, in not too civil a style 
of address. 

“Does a Mr. Eastbell live here?” 

“ Don’t think he does.” 

“Do you know a Mr. Vizzobini ?” said Reu- 
ben. suddenly recollecting himself, and thinking 
also that, for reasons too numerous to mention, 


Thomas Eastbell, late of Worcester, might have 
arrived in London incognito. 

“ Fitser — who ?” 

“He performs at the Saxe-Gotha Gardens on 
the slack rope,” Reuben explained still further. 

“Oh! that bloke,” said the parlor-floor, dis- 
paragingly ; “top of the ’ouse — front-room. ” 

“ Thank you.” 

The man slammed the door upon our hero, 
and did not wait for his thanks ; but as Reuben 
wefit up the dark stairs, it is worthy of remark 
that he came softly into the passage again,, and 
stood there listening to the firm, regular tread 
of him who ascended thus fearlessly. When the 
footsteps were echoing up the second flight, the 
man put his head into the court, looked steadily 
along its whole length to the dingy lamp at the 
top of the distant steps, and then drew back into 
the shadow again. 

“ Cheek !” he muttered ; “ a friend, or infor- 
mation received? — Here, Pincher.” 

Pincher, a wiry little terrier that in the dark- 
ness might have passed for a rat, dashed from 
the room at his master’s call, and, as if trained 
to the business — and it was highly probable that 
he was — darted up stairs with a rattling, scuffling 
noise, passed Reuben, and commenced barking 
vociferously when it had reached the top landing, 
where Reuben presently followed, with his hand 
clutching carefully at his stick, prepared to brain 
Pincher on the spot should it make a sally at his 
lower extremities. But the animal was content 
to sit on its hind-legs, and bark and howl and 
shriek, like a dog in a rat-trap, or under the 
wheel of a wagon. 

Reuben reached the front-room door with his 
stick, and rapped gently but emphatically against 
the panel. The dog ceased barking when he 
had knocked, and went scuffling to the bottom 
of the stairs again, where his master picked him 
up by the nape of the neck, and carried him in- 
doors. 

Meanwhile Reuben, after waiting patiently for 
a reply to his summons, knocked again. 

“ Who's there ?” said a faint, weak voice, 
which Reuben did not recognize. 

“A friend.” 

“We’ve no friends here.” 

“I come from the Saxe-Gotha.” 

“ From Tom ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh!” 

The door was cautiously opened, and there 
streamed through the aperture, through which a 
woman’s face was peering— white and wan and 
I pinched a rush of hot air as from a furnace 
mouth. 

j 4< ^ s h e locked up?” said the woman, some- 
what apathetically. 

“No. He will be back presently, I think.” 

I thought he was locked up. Do you want 
to come in ?” 
j “Yes.” 

“ Come in if you like, then — we don’t charge 
j any more, said the woman, with a sombre flip- 
I pancy that sat particularly ill upon her, and which 
| was followed by a fit of coughing that seemed 
more natural to the miserable appearance she 
! presented. 

The woman, who wore no boots, glided back 
noiselessly to the side of a big fire that was blaz- 
: i n g inappiopiiately in the grate that summer 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


night sat down in the chair she had quitted, and 
leaned her head against the wall like a woman 
tired out. 

But it was not her at which he gazed so in- 
tently as at the figure of a girl in a striped cotton 
dress who lay face-foremost on the patchwork 
counterpane of the bed, and whose face was hid- 
den by her hands. It was a figure of despair 
that thrilled him; it was surely Second-cousin 


43 

“Why silly?” 

“Because she — Here, I say, what’s your 
message ?” asked the woman, putting a sudden 
check upon her volubility; “what have you got 
to say about Tom, and what has Tom to say?” 

“Are you Tom’s wife ?” 

“Yes, I am.” 

“ And that’s Tom’s sister?” 

“ What of it?” was the rejoinder. 



Sarah cowering from him in that hour of her 
discovery. 

The woman, with her head against the wall, 
observed the intent gaze of Reuben in the direc- 
tion of the prostrate girl. 

“ She’s asleep ; you need not mind her.” 

“ Are you sure ?” 

“As sure as I’m a living woman, or a living 
skeleton. She’s been like that for hours, the 
silly.” 


“ From St. Oswald’s Almshouses, Worcester?” 

“Eh? — yes. You’re pat enough with your 
facts. How did you get them ? If you’ve come 
for her, I— I—” 

Here the woman burst into a second par- 
oxysm of coughing, for the cessation of which 
Reuben waited patiently, keeping his eyes upon 
the figure on the bed, and doubtful still if it were 
sleep that kept Sarah so dumb and passive.* It 
was a violent cough, that of Mrs. Eastbell’s, which 



44 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


was rending away all the life that was left in the 
sufferer, who carried consumption in her every 
look and fitful breath. The woman struggled and 
choked for a while, with her thin hands pressed 
to her side. 

“Yours is a bad cough,” Reuben said at last. 

“There’s not much more left of it or me, ” was 
the callous answer, “ and thank God for it.” 

“ Is not the room too hot for you ?” 

The woman shook her head. 

It was an unhealthy air that the huge fire 
had burned up, and there was a strange smell 
of hot metal, for which Reuben could not ac- 
count, and which the flat-iron on the hob, had it 
been in the most active service of ironing, could 
scarcely stand as an excuse for. An extensive 
plumbing job would have left traces in the atmos- 
phere like unto it, possibly. 

“You have come for her,” said Mrs. Eastbell, 
in a husky voice, returning once more to the sub- 
ject which had brought on her paroxysm of 
coughing ; “ but you can’t prove nothing.” 

Once more had his manner and appearance 
suggested a detective officer— it was only the po- 
liceman who haunted such places as he "had seen 
to-night, and who made himself obtrusive and 
objectionable. 

“ Yes, I have come for her, if she’ll trust me.” 

“ You’re just the chap for the likes of us to 
trust,” said Mrs. Eastbell, ironically, “ and poor 
Sally is sure to be uncommon glad to see you. 
Not that she’ll mind much which way it is, for 
she’s been awful down.” 

“Indeed! Has she?” 

“ If it ain’t Worcester Prison, it ’ll be the Sur- 
rey Canal.— Here! hi! Sally!” screamed the 
woman. “You’re fetched, my gal. Here’s a 
cove from Worcester says he wants you partik- 
ler. ” 

The girl lying upon the bed sprang up on 
her hands at once, and glared toward them 
both, shaking her long black hair from her head 
as she did so. Her face was flushed with sleep, 
but the pallor rapidly stole over it as she recog- 
nized Reuben Culwick standing by the fire-place 
observing her. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE APPEAL. 

“Mr. Culwick!” Sarah Eastbell whispered 
to herself. 

“ Yes, it is I,” said Reuben. 

“What can you want?” she murmured. 
“ What has made you come in search of me ?” 

“To help you,” was the answer ; “ for I am 
afi aid that you are in bad hands, and I wish to 
take you from them.” 

Sarah Eastbell was sitting on the side of the 
bed now, with her big dark eyes regarding the 
speaker, and her hands clasped together tightly. 

“It is too late,” she muttered. 

“I hope not.” 

“Oh yes,” she replied, with grim confidence 
in her assertion, “ by a long sight. Ah ! when 
I saw you last, I did not think that it would 
come to this, Sir that I should have to run 
away from grandmother. I felt so strong. I 
was sure that I should grow stronger as I got to 
be more of a woman ; and see now where I am. 
O my God, see now!” cried Sarah Eastbell, with 


a sudden passion, as she raised her hands above 
her head, in angry protest against her own ill fate. 

“I don’t see what’s the use of shrieking out 
like that,” said Mrs. Eastbell, reprovingly; 
“ they’ll think down stairs we’re a-murdering of 
you. You came away with Tom of your own 
accord— didn’t you ? and Tom and I has taken 
care of you since, and kept you out of the way of 
the perlice — hasn’t us ? This isn’t such a sight 
of complaint to bring against a hard-working cou- 
ple, is it, Mr. Cutstick ?” 

“ You came to London with your brother?” 
said Reuben to his cousin. 

“What was I to do?” replied the girl ; “it 
was that or the prison, though I wouldn’t have- 
cared for the prison so very much, only they 
would have called at the almshouses and taken 
me away from that poor old woman, who would 
have thought the worst of me forever after- 
ward. ” 

“ I don’t think that she would.” 

“I have told her so many lies,” said Sarah, 
moodily, “ and they would have all come out, 
and set her against me.” < 

“ They were white lies, to keep her mind at 
rest.” 

“Ah! but what a lot of them there were!” 
said Sarah. “ Why, I began to lie for the sake 
of lying at last, for the sake of brightening her 
up when she was dull and thoughtful, just as I 
do now by letter. I used to invent all kinds 
Oh ! I can’t think of it any more; I can't 
I daren’t. If I could only die now!” 

Sarah Eastbell, you must come away with 
me,” said Reuben, firmly. 

“No,” was the reply; “it’s only bv hiding 
here that I m safe. They’re after me still — 
everywhere,” she added, with a shudder. 

“ Your brother tells you that?” 

“ I know it for myself too well.” 

Did you attemjit to pass bad money in 
Worcester, then ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Knowing it to be bad?” 

No, no ; I did not know that. Somebody 
gave it me— I won’t say who it was— to get 
change, and then pay myself what was owing 
and — ” 

“Sarah!” cried Mrs. Eastbell, “the least 
said about that to this gent the better.” 

“ Come with me to Worcester, and tell the 
stoiy for yourself,” said Reuben. “ I will stand 
by you. 

“And see you carried off to jail,” said Mrs. 
Eastbell. “Well, that’s pretty nice advice for 
a man to give a weak young thing like you.” 

“ No, no ; let me be, please; what’s the use’” 
muttered Sarah Eastbell. ‘ ‘ I must go on as I am 
— -there s no help for me ; I’m past your help, 

Mi. Culwmk though I didn’t think you were so 
good a man as this, she added, with a strange 
yearning look toward him, “or that you would 
take all this trouble, and I’m thankful— very • 
but to get away from here is to kill the only 
friend I ever had.” J 

“Your grandmother?” 

“Yes.” 

She may hear of this at any moment ” 

‘‘Ay— she may,” said Sarah Eastbell,’ sadly 
and then she will die.” " 

. “ **aye J ou an 7 id ea of what vour future life 
is to be in this place ?” asked Reuben. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ I haven’t thought much. I can’t think,” 
replied his cousin, with a strange helplessness 
“I mayn’t come to much harm— I don’t know.” 

“Would not any thing be better than re- 
maining?” 

“There’s no getting away,” answered Sarah. 
“Ask her.” 

“Tom wouldn’t like it,” said Mrs. Eastbell, 
thus appealed to. “ Sally’s handy.” 

. “And Sally knows too much,” added the 
girl, scornfully; “and if she moved one step 
away from home— see, this is my home!” she 
died, with another exhibition of passion, as she 
looked round the four walls of the squalid room — 
“they would tell the police where to find me.” 

“I wouldn’t, Sally,” said the woman, raising 
her head from the wall, and inclining it forward 
in her self-defense. 

“ You know who would.” 

“Ah! I can’t answer for him,” replied Mrs. 
Eastbell, leaning her head back again ; “ when 
his back’s up he don’t much mind what he does, 
certainly, and misfortun’ has soured him awful.” 
“ Your husband ?” inquired Reuben. 

“I don’t mention no names,” said the woman, 
with low cunning. 

Sarah left the side of the bed and walked to 
the door, which she opened and listened at. 

“ I’d go now,” she said, anxiously, to Reuben : 
“ it’s no use stopping longer— it isn’t safe.” 

Reuben was puzzled at her manner, and per- 
plexed by her stubbornness. Here was a girl in 
the toils, a woman hemmed in, and who, with- 
| out money and friends, without hope even, must 
infallibly give up. • She must drift, as he had told 
Lucy that she would. He felt almost powerless 
in the matter ; and yet she had been an unselfish 
and honest girl, and might under other circum- 
stances have been so easily saved. There was 
one more train of reasoning to urge — he could 
not leave her to her fate without a struggle. 

“I saw your grandmother yesterday.” 

“You did?” exclaimed she — “at Worcester?” 
“Yes.” 

“I hope she was well — that she didn’t know 
any thing?” was her eager questioning. 

“ No — she lay there just as I saw her weeks 
ago — very patient, very gentle, and very full of 
love for you. She was waiting for her grand- 
daughter to come back.” 

“Ah! if I could!” 

“ Couldn’t she come to you ? I don’t mean at 
once,” he added, as Sarah recoiled at the sugges- 
tion, “ but after you had left here and got some 
situation which might enable you to hire a room 
for her. A friend of mine has found a situation 
for you already, and I will be security for your 
faithful service until they learn to trust you for 
yourself.” 

Sarah broke down at last. The thin little 
hands went up quickly to the face, as he had seen 
Tots’s at home in times of childish tribulation, 
and she sobbed forth, 

“ God bless you, Sir ; but don’t — oh, don’t say 
another word !” 

Rut Reuben Culwick, carried away by his 
theme, seized his advantage and went on. He 
had one object in life now — to get Sarah East- 
bell from that house. 

“Why, you are my cousin,” he said, earnest- 
ly, “and why shouldn’t I help you for your own 
sake, as well as for the sake of that old woman 


45 

grieving for you down in Worcester ? You can’t 
be worse off in Worcester Prison — say that that’s 
the worst — than in this den. ” 

“No, no — but she would hear of it. I have 
told you so,” she added, peevishly, “ or you don't 
know — you don’t see — ” 

“Sally,” said her sister-in-law, slowly and em- 
phatically, “I’ve been a-thinking it all-over.” 

“ Well?” said Sarah Eastbell. 

“And if you’d like to go, I’ll not blab a sin- 
gle word against you, even if he kills me, and 
he’s often said he would. He mayn’t find you 
out, and if he does he’ll think twice about doing 
you an ill turn. He’s not so bad, you know, take 
him altogether. Go — run away — hook it,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Eastbell, with increasing" excite- 
ment evidencing itself along with her slangy 
phraseology, “while there’s time!” 

Sarah wavered, for she turned quickly to her 
sister-in-law. 

“ You — you mean this ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You will not tell Tom, or Tom’s friends — 
you will let me pass from this place unwatched — 
you will give me time to get away ?” 

“ Of course I will.” 

“ I came here of my own free-will, Sir, not 
knowing where to go in my despair and fright,” 
she said, turning to Reuben ; “but, oh! if I could 
get away again. If you only knew that — ” 

Her hands fell helplessly to her side, and she 
went backward step by step to the bedside again, 
where she sat down with a new horror on her 
countenance. 

The door had opened, and Tom Eastbell, with 
his long great-coat buttoned round him, was 
standing in the doorway regarding them. Over 
his shoulder loomed the forbidding countenance 
of the man who had met Reuben at the entrance, 
which, by the jarring and clanging that echoed 
through the house, was evidently being bolted 
and barred and locked with a mysterious and 
suspicious precipitancy. 

Reuben Culwick was not greatly dismayed, but 
there came a strong suspicion to his mind" that he 
was in danger. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

IN DANGER. 

The man who in his zeal had adventured into 
Potter’s Court did not betray, by any change of 
feature, his sense of the danger which was hang- 
ing over him. It was not an enviable position, 
but his coolness did not desert him. He looked 
steadily toward the two men in the doorway, and 
calculated their strength and weight against his 
own, and the extra odds that might be lurking 
on the dark landing-place and staircase. 

Had it not been for the clanging of the bolts 
below, and for the careful locking up of the house, 
he would have been disposed to regard the arriv- 
al of Thomas Eastbell and his companion in a 
friendly spirit, despite the scowls with which they 
favored him, and the anxious faces of the women. 
He was standing by the fire-place, and he glanced 
down for any weapon of defense that might come 
in handy if the gentlemen in the house grew dis- 
putatious ; but the fire-irons were missing, and 
there was only his own natural strength to rely 
upon, if necessary. 


46 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“Hanged if I didn’t think so!” exclaimed 
Thomas Eastbell, alias Vizzobini, of the crown- 
ed-head patronage department. “ So this is why 
vou have been creeping about the Saxe-Gotha, 
is it? Well, what have I done, that you come 
into my crib in this way ? Now you’ve found me 
out, what have you got to say ? What the blazes 
have you got to say ?” he roared forth in a louder 
key. 

“ That you keep too big a fire for the time of 
year, and that it isn’t good for your healths,” 
said Reuben, in a quiet tone of voice. “I have 
been telling Miss Eastbell so.” 

“What’s the fire to do with you? You don’t 
send in the coals and coke to make it up, do you ? 
There ain’t a law against a man having as much 
fire as he chooses, if he can pay for it. You ain’t 
put yourself out of the way to come to Potter’s 
Court to tell us that ?” 

“I have come to Potter’s Court to see your 
sister. ” 

“ Well, that’s uncommon kind of you !” he an- 
swered, ironically. 

“Tom,” said Sarah, at this juncture, “this 
is Mr. Culwick— young Mr. Culwick— our sec-, 
ond cousin. You have heard me speak of him. 
You must not attempt in any way to interfere 
with him.” 

“You shut up! Hasn’t he interfered with 
me ?” snarled forth her brother ; “hasn’t he been 
dodging after me for the last three days ?” 

“ He has been trying to find me.” " 

“ What business has he with you ? Why can’t 
he mind his own business, and let you alone ?” 
cried 'lom. “What’s this second-cousin cove 
to us ? What good is he ? What notice has he 
ever taken of us till now ? Damme ! I don’t be- 
lieve lie’s a cousin at all, but an infernal police- 
man trying to work up a case against people 
more honest than hisself.” 

“I don’t ask you to believe any thing,” said 
Reuben. 

“ After telling me to-night that you’d come to 
see me perform, I shouldn’t think you would! 
No, the cousin dodge won’t do for me, ” he added ; 
“I’m not likely to swallow that yarn. What’s 
your little game ?” 

“I came to help your sister.” 

“Oh! that’s it.— Eh?” 

The interrogative was addressed to the man 
looking over his shoulder, who had touched his 
arm and whispered in his ear, keeping his eyes 
fixed upon Reuben meanwhile. 

“ Mv friend remarks,” said Mr. Eastbell, with 
a grim smile upon his countenance as he address- 
ed Reuben once more, “that if you have come 
to help the family, perhaps you will be kind 
enough to prove your words by doing the hand- 
some to us poor people.” 

“You mean give you money ?” 

“We are thundering poor,” said Tom. 

“So am I.” 

“We are out of luck, and you are here to help 
us. ” 

“To help Sarah Eastbell, if she will.” 

“To help all of us or none— we share and share 
alike in Potter’s Court.” 

“Then, gentlemen, I am sorry that I can not 
help you.” 

“But you must,” growled forth the man in the 
background who had recently whispered to Tom 
Eastbell ; “ you’ve walked in without leave after 


the gal, and you’ll pay your footing before you go 
away.” 

An awful blood-curdling oath closed this asser- 
tion. 

“I think not,” said Reuben Culwick. 

“Then you’ll have to stop,” cried the man. 
“The house is locked up for the night, and we 
can’t afford to part with you — can we, mate?” 
“No, we can’t,” answered Thomas Eastbell. 
“Am I to understand that I’m a prisoner?” 
inquired Reuben, sternly. 

“You’re to understand nothing but that you’ve 
come here of your own free-will, and that it 
ain’t convenient to unlock the house again to- 
night,” said Tom. “We don’t know what you’ve 
come for, what you’ve seen to make a case of, 
or what story you may trump up to-morrow to 
lug some innersent people off to prison.” 

“ 1 ou’ve taken up your lodging, and you can’t 
go without paying for it,” said the other man; 

“ that’s the law, fair and straight, you know, in 
any court. So pay up, if you mean well.” 

“ Ingenious, ’’said Reuben, shrugging his broad 
shoulders ; “but I have nothing to give away.” 

“ There’s men down stairs who say you’re a 
spy on them, ’’said Tom, in further explanation, 
“and they’re Irish, and soon riled. So help me,” 
he added, in a confidential tone, “ if I would an- 
swer for your life if you stop here much longer. 
They’re awful chaps, I swear!” 

Reuben smiled incredulously. 

“I am not afraid of them.”" 

“ Ask my sister. As you’re dead nuts on her, 
p’r’aps you’ll take her word.— Sally,” he said, 

“ will the Petersons stand as much of this man’s 
cheek as I have?” 

“They will not come up here !” cried Sarah, in 
alarm. 

r “They’re sitting on the stairs waiting,” said 
Tom, “and they will know all about this fellow. 
They are as sure as I am that he’s a detective !” 

“ 1 ou have told them so! ’ said Sarah, indig- 
nantly. 

“P’r’aps I have, and p’r’aps I haven’t,” an- 
swered her brother. “And now you and Soph 
just move out of here — we can’t come to terms 
with women in the room. The gentleman will 
be much more reasonable when we are all men 
of business together. Do you hear?” he yelled, 
as a want of alacrity in responding to his sum- 
mons disturbed the last fragment of self-posses- 
sion that was left him. 

Mrs. Eastbell rose to comply with her hus- 
band s request, but Sarah darted to the window 
of the room, and threw it open. 

“ What the devil now ?” exclaimed her broth- 
er, as the cold air rushed in, and Mrs. Eastbell, 
taken aback by it, began to cough herself to 
pieces. 

“ There’s mischief meant,” cried Sarah. “I 
sha n t leave this window while Mr. Culwick re- 
mains, and I will scream my heart out if vou 
touch him !— 1 This is a dreadful house, Sir,” she 
said to Reuben, “with dreadful men in it. Be 
on your guard. ” 

“Come back from that window!” roared her 
brother. 

“ I will do nothing of the kind,” cried Sarah, 
standing there erect and defiant; “till Mr. Cul- 
I wick is allowed to quit this place I’ll not move 
away.” 

“Don t you see how you’re making your sis- 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


ter-in-law cough, you brute ?” said Thomas East- 
hell. ‘ ‘ If we were the Forty Thieves you couldn’t 
make more fuss. Why — ” 

He was sidling, step by step, toward his sister 
as he spoke, when Reuben Culwick crossed the 
room in one stride, and thrust him forcibly away 
before his panther-like spring could fasten on her! 
It was a bold move, assuming the offensive in 
this fashion, but Reuben had grown angrv at re- 
stiaint, and it was the time to act, or never. 
Thomas Eastbell, despite his athletic profession, 
was a slight man, with an undeveloped physique, 
and no match for the strength of the "honest 
young fellow who had confronted him thus un- 
ceremoniously. Reuben’s thrust sent him stag- 
gering with violence against his friend, who, 
taken off his guard, received Tom’s bullet head 
between his eyes, and fell backward into the pas- 
sage with Tom on the top of him. 

The sudden change in the condition of affairs 
approximated so closely to burlesque that a short 
sharp laugh escaped our hero as the men tum- 
bled over each other. Still, it was a crisis ; he 
had thrown down the gauntlet, and must face 
the result. The clear doorway suggested a tem- 
porary expedient, and he closed the door quickly, 
locked it with the key which he knew was on the 
inner side, and set his foot against the lower por- 
tion of the wood-work. 

“There’ll be murder done now,” said Mrs. 
Eastbell, wringing her hands. “ Oh, you fool, to 
come to this place ! Call out you’ll give ’em 
money, or they can have your watch — say some- 
thing ! They’re coming up the stairs ! ” 

“ Who are they ?” asked Reuben, sternly now. 
Mrs. Eastbell did not answer, but Sarah whis- 
pered, 

“ Coiners!” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

ON DEFENSE. 

Reuben began to consider his position with a 
greater degree of seriousness, although his cour- 
age did not in any way desert him. That it 
would be a fight for life now he did not doubt, 
for the house was full from roof to basement of 
desperate men, with whom life might be of little 
value in comparison with the secret of their ne- 
farious trade. If he could disappear without any 
I fuss, it would be better for the welfare of the 
I community at Potter’s Court ; and he had set 
them all at defiance, and would betray them if 
! allowed to leave the premises. 

He could hear the trampling rush of heavy feet 
up the stairs, and the low oaths and curses of the 
men whom he had left on their backs on the 
landing-place, and then the door creaked and 
shook with the heavy pressure of shoulders from 
without. 

Sarah Eastbell was as good as her word. Her 
watchful dark eyes had observed the door vibra- 
ting, and a scream of extraordinary shrillness and 
volume startled the echoes of Potter’s Court, and 
welled forth into the narrow street beyond. 

“Oh! don’t, Sally — it’s only their fun, per- 
haps,” cried Mrs. Eastbell ; but Sally, excited 
by the proximity of danger, screamed again with 
fifty horse-power, and then swept from the win- 
dow-sill a whole collection of flower-pots that 
had held the geraniums and fuchsias of the last I 


47 

tenant, and which descended with a tremendous 
crash on to the paved footway below. The pressure 
against the door ceased, as though the people in 
the house had stopped to listen ; the windows of 
other houses in Potter’s Court began opening rap- 
idlv ; there were voices shouting out innumera- 
ble questions ; there were three or four shrill whis- 
tles, and then the ominous crack of a rattle, fol- 
lowed by another in response, and at a little dis- 
tance. 

“ You are safe,” said Sarah ; “ the police are 
coming.” 

“You have brought it all upon us, Sally!” 
cried Mrs. Eastbell, bursting into tears; “it's" all 
your wicked temper and willfulness. We shall 
go to prison— every one of us.” 

“ Mr. Culwick will not say a word to add to any 
misery here, I’m sure, ’’said Sarah, meaninglv. 

I he court was full of noise now, amidst which 
were heard rough peremptory voices asking ques- 
tions, and receiving a grand chorus of explana- 
tion ; but in the house, and beyond the door 
which Reuben had locked, was the stillness of 
the dead. Presently the street door below was 
unfastened in response to solemn knocks with- 
out, and then the ponderous unmistakable boots 
of the metropolitan force were heard clamping 
up the stairs. Reuben unlocked the room door, 
and Thomas Eastbell, white as a ghost, crawled 
in on his hands and knees, took a harlequin’s dive 
into bed, and drew the tattered coverlet to his 
chin. The burly figures of three policemen were 
in the room an instant or two afterward : the rep- 
resentatives of the force never went singly to Pot- 
ter’s Court when a dispute was raging among its 
inhabitants. 

“ Now, then, what’s the row?” said the prin- 
cipal spokesman. “Who’s been trying to throw 
the other out of window?” 

“Who’s been melting lead?” inquired anoth- 
er, whom the peculiar nature of the atmosphere 
had impressed as it had done Reuben at an earli- 
er hour. 

No one had been throwing another out of win- 
dow, whined forth Mrs. Eastbell; no one had 
been melting lead or any thing. They had had 
a little wrangle as if got late, and just as their 
cousin was a-going home, the flower-pots some- 
how gave way and fell into the court, which 
frightened the gal at the window, who began to 
scream. The policeman who had first spoken 
listened to this explanation with a stolid stare 
upon his countenance ; the second official, being 
of an inquisitive turn of mind, opened all the 
drawers and cupboards, and examined their con- 
tents ; the third man inspected Mr. Thomas East- 
bell, as he lay recumbent, and inconvenienced 
him by giving him the full benefit of the glare 
from a bull’s-eye lantern on his face. 

“Come, that sham won’t do, young feller,” 
said he. “Is there any complaint to make?” 

No one had any complaint to make. 

“ Has any one been robbed, or threatened, or 
maltreated ?” asked the first policeman, looking 
hard at Reuben. 

No one answered. 

“Who are you?” asked the policeman, ab- 
ruptly, of our hero. 

“Oh ! I’m the cousin,” answered Reubep. 

“ You’ve nothing to say ?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Are you going to stop here?” 


48 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ Thank you, no,” said Reuben ; “I was just 
thinking of getting home. We have had a little 
dispute, certainly, and Tom and I — this is my 
cousin Tom, who performs at the Saxe-Gotha — 
got to high words and a playful scramble — and 
that’s - all.” 

“Yes — that’s all,” asserted Tom, with alacri- 
ty, “and it’s a precious little to come into a 
man’s house for — three of you, too — and rum- 
mage over his things.” 

“ What’s your name?” 

“ Vizzobini.” 

“From the country?” 

“ From Rome.” 

“ I should like to know where this smell of lead 
comes from, ’’said the inquisitivepoliceman again. 

Reuben had crossed to Sarah. 

“Here is your chance still. Will you leave 
this place?” 

“Not yet,” she answered; “not till Tom’s safe.” 

“Tom’s a scoundrel.” 

‘ ‘ He is my brother. ” 

“But when I am gone, they — ” 

“They will not hurt me,” she said, with a 
forced smile. “I shall not come to any harm. 
Go now, please.” 

“ Shall I ever see you again ? — or do you pass 
away from me, as from the poor old woman you 
have left alone in St. Oswald’s ?” 

It was a reproof, but he intended it. 

“You will see me again soon,” she answered, 
with a strange look toward him. 

“ Good-by, then.” 

“Good-by.” 

Reuben went out of the room, and the police- 
men followed him down stairs, and into the court, 
strewn with innumerable fragments of flower-pots, 
which were crunched beneath their heavy heels. 

“Blessed if you mightn’t have smashed some- 
body with your larks,” said the observant police- 
man, looking up at the window from which the 
avalanche had descended. 

“ It was rather rough play,” answered Reuben. 

“ Have you been there before ?” asked the first 
policeman. 

“No.” 

“ You’ll not go there again, cousin or no cous- 
in, if you have any thing to lose.” 

“Which I have not.” 

“ I don’t think you’re one of the lot,” said the 
policeman, eying him closely, when they were 
up the steps and under the 'gas lamp, “but I 
shall remember you, my man.” 

“Thank you.” 

And then Reuben Cuhvick, somewhat ungrate- 
ful, left the triumvirate who had arrived in good 
time to his rescue. But he could not explain, 
and it seemed the better policy to be silent for 
Second-cousin Sarah’s sake. She had wished it 
— and it was she who had saved him from dan- 
ger. He had to think again of the way to save 
her, now that he had become more than ever re- 
solved to get her away from Potter’s Court. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ATONEMENT. 

Reuben Culwick did not attempt in any way 
to account for his late hours to the inmates of 
Hope Lodge. He was the master of his own 


actions, which no one, he felt, had any right to 
criticise. Hence, with this impression on his 
mind, the deep reveries of Lucy Jennings, and 
the studious stares of her brother, who, when not 
busy with his fire-works, appeared to be taking 
him in far too intently, became a source of irri- 
tation to him. 

It had impressed itself upon the Jenningses’ 
mind, brother and sister’s, that he, Reuben Cul- 
wick, was not so steady as he used to be — that 
he had come back from Worcester a changed 
man. He had been at the Saxe-Gotha Gardens 
more than once, and John Jennings knew that 
he was interested in a girl in a black and white 
cotton dress, for he had not only made inquiries 
concerning her, but had warned him not to tell 
Lucy. Then he was eccentric, and kept late 
hours ; he had become reticent when people want- 
ed him talkative ; a portion of his bright cheery 
nature had suddenly vanished, and he had grown 
wondrously thoughtful, as men will do when their 
consciences are ill at ease. 

Neither John nor Lucy Jennings thought that 
Reuben Culwick had his second cousin on his 
mind, and that it was his own generous concern 
for her that had turned him grave of late days. 
And why Second-cousin Sarah should oppress his 
mind in this way he could hardly account for 
himself, for she seemed scarcely grateful for his 
interest, and in some respects to be opposed to 
it. He exercised no influence over her; she 
was on the wrong road, and no persuasions of his 
had power to turn her back. She was a relation, 
certainly, but then so was Tom Eastbell, and the 
old Avoman in the almshouse of St. Oswald’s. 
Was it her helplessness, hemmed round by the 
adverse circumstances of life, and through which 
it seemed impossible to break? Was it the for- 
lornness of her youth, and the good traits of 
character that seemed to fight hard in her for fair 
play ? It was not a romantic interest, although 
there had been a certain amount of romance in 
the meetings and partings between them. She 
was only a “ bit of a girl,” and there was not the 
ghost of a tender sentiment inspiring him, he 
was certain. She had been so obstinate and self- 
willed at times, too, that he had felt disposed to 
shake her, but still there was an intense longing 
to save her, and a sad feeling, almost of despair, 
at his own inability to accomplish it. 

He took no one into his counsel ; if he had 
small faith in himself, he had less in any body 
•else, and, for reasons which he will explain pres- 
ently, he kept the story of his discovery of his 
cousin, and of the adventure which had followed 
it, a secret. He went his own course, and he 
waited and watched for Sarah Eastbell still ; and 
even Tots knew that there was something differ- 
ent in the little world they shared together, bv 
his more constant absence from home, and by his 
leaving her to Aunt Lucy’s care and guidance, 
which, however well carried out, was accompa- 
nied by more scoldings and lectures than even 
Tots remembered suffering from at any period 
anterior to this. 

John Jennings was suffering also from the same 
cause. His sister Lucy’s temper was certainly 
not improving ; every day she was becoming hard- 
er and grimmer, more uncharitable and more 
suspicious ; and thus the change in Reuben Cul- 
wick seemed to work its change on the house- 
hold in its turn. John set down his sister’s 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


acerbity, and her bad habit of slamming the 
doois behind her, to her consciousness that all 
was not well with his Saxe-Gotha Gardens ac- 
count and he essayed to render matters more 
cheerful by giving highly colored versions of the 
position of affairs, which Lucv did not respond 
to, and probably did not believe in, judging by 
the stony apathy with which she listened to his 
statements. Reuben was the first to comment 
upon the change in Lucy Jennings. He was 


Any thing the matter!” answered Lucy, at 
once ; “ with you, do you mean ?” 

“No, with you.” 

1 1 in not very well, but I don’t know that I 
am worse than usual. Why ?” 

“You don’t seem quite so lively, that’s all,” 
said Reuben. “I was afraid that you and John 
had had a little difference, and I was going to 
volunteer to act as mediator.” 

“Thank you,” was the answer, “John and I 



quick enough to note her taciturnity and stolid- 
ity, although unaware that he had been extra 
grave and a trifle mysterious himself ; and when 
it came to bringing in the breakfast tray without 
a word, setting it down with a bang that jarred on 
his nerves, and leaving the room without so much 
as a “good-morning,” he thought it was quite 
time to make a few inquiries on his own account. 

“Is any thing the matter, Lucy?” he asked 
at last one morning. 


understand each other very well without any me- 
diation. We have not quarreled — we never do 
quarrel.” 

“You haven’t heard any bad news?” 

“Not at present. We’re waiting.” 

“Waiting for bad news! Well, Lucy,” he 
added, with one of his old laughs, “ I would wait 
till it came before giving way.” 

Lucy saw her opportunity, and being a woman, 
dashed at it. 


D 


50 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“It has come, though we don't know what it 
means.” 

“Eh — how’s that?” 

Lucy Jennings sat down in the chair nearest 
to her lodger, and burst forth with her catalogue 
of .wrongs, making amends for all past reserve in 
o le breath. 

“ It has come to you. You’re not the man you 
have been. You keep away from home too much 
— you have been seen at low places of amuse- 
ment — you’re going wrong — you — you — you nev- 
er tell us any thing,” cried Lucy, passionately. 

“Yes, I have been seen at low places of amuse- 
ment,” said Reuben, quietly ; “and my hours of 
return to Hope Lodge are somewhat irregular at 
present. And so I am going wrong, Lucy ?” 
“You are not doing what is right.” 

“That’s frank,” said Reuben, dryly. 

“You must be ashamed of something, or you 
would tell us,” said this plain-speaking young 
woman. “ There’s always a bad reason for hus- 
tling the truth into a corner, and hiding your 
life away from those who are anxious about it.” 
“You are very kind to be anxious ; but — ” 

“ I never said that I was anxious,” cried Lucy, 
“ only that there were those whom you were dis- 
turbing by your change of life — by your strange 
ways. You are neglecting your work — there’s 
that paper been lying on your desk untouched 
tor the last three days — you don’t go to the of- 
fice, because letters from the Trumpet come to 
you. I know the seal. John says you’re often 
at the Saxe-Gotha — that last night you were ask- 
ing the waiter why Vizzobini had given up per- 
forming — and altogether you’re restless, ill at 
ease, unhappy.” 

“You will excuse me, Lucy,” he said, more 
gravely and coldly than he was in the habit of 
addressing her, “ but is it your place to tell me 
of it, even in this irrelevant and insane fashion ?” 

“If no one else will — yes,” cried Lucy, stout- 
ly’. “ I never saw any one going wrong — by ever 
so little — but what I felt it my place, my duty, 
to try and set the sinner right again.” 

“Yes, but you jump too rapidly at conclu- 
sions, after the habit of enthusiasts. I’m not a 
sinner — that is, no more of a miserable specimen 
than I was three weeks ago. ” 

“Why did you ask John about the girl in the 
striped dress at the Saxe-Gotha — .?” 

“Ah, the rascal has turned king’s evidence, 
then !” cried our hero. 

“ Why did you ask him not to tell me ?— why 
are you always at the gardens ? — why had you 
the effrontery,” she cried, with eyes ablaze now, 
“to ask that wretched, miserable girl to call 
here for you ?” 

“What!” shouted Reuben, so forcibly that 
even Lucy was unprepared for his excitement, 
and jumped back in her chair some distance from 
him. 

“ What do you mean ?” he continued ; “ who 
has been here? Speak out — don’t glare at me, 
you suspicious, heartless, disagreeable woman! 
What girl called here for me ?” 

Lucy was very pale, but she held her ground 
against his rage, though she had never been a 
witness to it before. He had been always a 
pleasant man till this day, but now he was full 
of passion and, perhaps, hate of her. She could 
understand more clearly now why his quarrel 
with his father had been a bitter one. 


“It was a girl in a striped cotton dress ,” said 
Lucy, with emphasis. 

“Somewhat tall and thin, with great black 
eyes ?” 

“I didn’t notice her eyes,” said Lucy, aggra- 
vatingly; “she was a pert, insolent, miserably 
clad woman. She would not answer any of my 
questions, save that you had told her to call, and 
she grew impertinent at last.” 

“ You sent her away?” 

“Yes.” 

“You did not tell her that I should be home 
soon — ask her to call again — any thing ?” 

“ She said that she would never come again.” 
“Because of your hardness and harshness?” 
“Did you expect me to be civil to her?” 
“Why not ?” 

“She carried effrontery and desperation in 
her face.” 

“It’s a lie!” shouted Reuben Culwiek. “You 
don’t know what you are doing, what you have 
done, in your heartlessness.” 

“If I have stopped her coming, if I — ” 

“ Don’t say any more,” cried Reuben, “ for I 
can’t listen to you. There was a soul to be saved, 
and you have wrecked it.” 

“No,” said Lucy, growing paler still, “you 
don’t mean — ” 

“I mean that that girl is my cousin, for 
whom you tried to obtain an honest place in 
life,” he replied; “for whose salvation I have 
been struggling after my useless fashion.” 

“ She is at Worcester.” 

“ She left Worcester. There was a false 
charge against her; she could not meet it or ac- 
count for it, and she ran away from home,” said 
Reuben. “It was a false step, for she trusted a 
vagabond brother, and lost faith in herself; but 
she lived on in hope, for all that, and she kept 
strong amidst it all.” 

“And then ?” 

“And then I found her in London, and tried 
to save her from the evil that was surrounding 
her. She saved my life, perhaps, then, and ren- 
dered me forever her debtor. When there was 
a chance for her she was to come here. She 
came,” he said, fiercely, “and you sent her 
away. How will you, with all your narrow views 
of charity, and God’s mercy, and God’s venge- 
ance, answer for it, if you" have cut from her 
the last thread which led her to a better life?” 

Lucy Jennings was cowed by his reproaches, 
by his vehemence. Suspicious, awfully suspi- 
cious, as she was, shd was still a religious wom- 
an, and the horror of having cast back a stub- 
born, willful nature on itself rose before her even 
in more terrible colors than he had painted it. 

“Why— why didn’t you tell me?” she gasped 
forth — “why didn’t you trust me?” 

“You are not to be trusted,” said Reuben, re- 
morselessly ; “ you would have believed the worst 
of her, until I could have proved how merciless 
you were. You are a woman, and you judge 
your sex as women will!” 

“I will find her,” said Lucy, very meeklv now. 

“ I will bring her back.” 

“ It is impossible.” 

“I will tell her that I was wrong in mv judg- 
ment. I will ask her pardon. You must not 
charge the loss of this girl to me.” 

“She will never return.” 

“Where did you see her last?” 


SECOND-COT 

“In Potter’s Court.” 

“I know it — in the Walworth Road,” said 
Lucy ‘ ‘ It is part of my mission to go among the 
people there. What is the number of the house ?” 
Two.” 

“ Where the Petersons live— the Irish people. 

•htu ° at once * Eon t judge me too harshly, 
till I have made amends for mv mistake,” she 
pleaded. 

It is too late, ’’said Reuben, gloomily; “the 
house was empty two days since. There were 
coineis in it, and the suspicion that I might be- 
tiay them, or that the police were on the scent, 
led them to leave the premises.” 

I will find them,” said Lucy ; “I am known. 
People trust me there, who know me better than 
you do,” she added, almost disdainfully again. 

“Why should they trust you ?” asked Reuben, 
wonderingly. 

“Because they understand me, because in the 
midst of crime and suffering I have been often at 
my best, and tried to do my best. Because I have 
been less suspicious and more in earnest there. I 
am not a good woman,” she said, with a sudden 
abjectness once more predominant, “but God 
knows that I have tried hard to be good, and to 
forget self at times, amidst the misery I have 
moved in. I will find her, or” (with a hard ex- 
pression on her countenance) “I will never come 
back again.” 

u That is an unwise threat, scarcely consistent 
with your duty to your brother.” 

“I have said it,” answered Lucy; “I never 
break my word.” 

Lucy Jennings walked out of the room with 
her hands rigidly clasped together ; in a few min- 
utes afterward she had passed out of the house. 

“Havel been too hard with her?” thought 
Reuben, looking after her. “ Have I driven her 
from home ? Is she quite right in her head, I 
wonder ?” 

Lucy Jennings was not quite right in that de- 
partment, possibly, but she knew what she was 
about, and she was a woman of a strong deter- 
mination. She had made a mistake, and her 
pride was abased. There was an atonement to 
make, and a woman to save, and in the midst 
of all the contrarieties of her singular character, 
a heart somewhat stony had been set in the right 
place. Lucy Jennings was not far wrong in her 
self-estimate — it was only amidst much priva- 
tion, crime, and misery that she was at her best. 

It was late, and when John Jennings and Reu- 
ben Culwick had taken counsel together, and had 
arrived at the conclusion that she would not re- 
turn that night — when Tots, with the inconsist- 
ency of childhood, had begun to fret after her 
hard custodian — Lucy, stiff-backed and grim, 
came up the front garden, with a tall girl, who 
walked with difficulty, resting on her arm. 

“Here’s your second-cousin Sarah,” she said 
to Reuben, in her old jerky manner as the two 
women came into the house. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE RETURN. 

Reuben Culwick rose to greet his second 
cousin, and to introduce her to John Jennings, 
who was filling in some Roman candle cases for 


SIN SARAH. 51 

Mr. Splud’s benefit, which was to take place in 
a fortnight’s time at the Saxe-Gotha, after which 
a faithful settlement of accounts was solemnly 
promised to all those whom it might concern, 
and it concerned Mr. Jennings very much in- 
deed. 

“I am glad that you have come,” said Reu- 
ben, heartily. — “John” (to the fire-work-maker), 
“this is my second-cousin Sarah.” 

.“ How dye do, marm?” said Mr. Jennings, 
with a solemn bow. 

Sarah Eastbell was very like Sarah Eastbell’s 
ghost as she looked from one to another, and 
tried hard to raise a smile, without success. 

“ Can’t you find the girl a seat instead of star- 
ing at her?” said Lucy, sharply, to her brother, 
who immediately tendered her his own chair, 
and began to put away his fire-works. 

“ You have been ill,” said Reuben to his 
cousin, as she sat down wearily. “ How’s that ?” 

“Not ill exactly. A little weak, perhaps,” 
answered Sarah. “I shall be better in a minute.” 

“I am very glad that you have found her, 
Lucy, ’’said Reuben to Miss Jennings, who was 
untying her bonnet strings in rather a violent 
manner; “you will let me thank you for all the 
trouble that you have taken ?” 

Lucy shook her head emphatically. 

“I never cared for people’s thanks,” she an- 
swered. 

“She has been very good to me, ” Sarah East- 
bell murmured. “I made a mistake when 1 
thought her very hard ; but my life’s been prettv 
well all mistakes, I think.” 

“ There’s plenty of time before you,” said Reu- 
ben ; “why, life is only just commencing : you’re 
not an old fellow like me, who has worn out life 
and all his hopes in it.” 

“Don’t mind him,” said Lucy Jennings, as 
the great dark eyes were upturned to Reuben 
with much wonder in them. “ He talks like that 
at times, and for no reason.” 

“Perhaps it’s a way that I have,” said Reu- 
ben. “And now, how did Miss Jennings find 
you?” 

“You are not going to worry her into a long 
statement to-night,” said Lucy, interfering. 

“ Can’t you see that she is ill?” 

“The young woman would like a drop of 
whisky, perhaps,” said John, suddenly producing 
the bottle from the cupboard in which he had 
put away his Roman candles. 

“You can’t think of any thing but whisky,” 
cried his sister, acrimoniously. ‘ ‘ Lock your poi- 
son up, and be quiet.” 

“ Mr. Reuben, perhaps you — ” 

“No, thank you, John.” 

“Well, as it is out, perhaps a thimbleful will 
not do me any harm,” he said, as though some * 
invisible being had pressed him very earnestly 
not to put it away without tasting it. He filled 
a small glass, and drank off its contents, and Sa- 
rah Eastbell turned to Reuben. 

“ I don’t want any money,” she said, with sud- 
den alacrity. 

“Well, I haven’t asked you to take any,” he 
answered, laughingly. 

“She wants rest,” muttered Lucy Jennings. 

“ I don’t want rest — only a few hours, that is,” 
said Sarah, correcting herself ; “and then I hope 
to set off.” 

“Set off!” 


repeated Reuben ; “ where ?” 


52 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“To Worcester,” answered Sarah. “ I have 
been thinking of what you said to me at Potter’s 
Court, and when Tom and his wife left me in the 
lurch — they went away in the night while I was 
asleep, as if they had grown suddenly afraid of 
me — I came to this place, and — ” 

“And I sent you away,” added Lucy, as Sa- 
rah East bell paused. “ That was one of my mis- 
takes. We all make them. Go on.” 

“I wanted you to take me down to Worcester, 
then,” she said to Reuben, “to stand by me, as 
you promised that you would, being a good man.” 

“My dear girl, I am a very bad man. Ask 
Lucy.” 

Miss Jennings frowned, and would not see the 
joke. 

“And it you will take me to-morrow — early 
I should like it,” she continued, speaking with 
some amount of difficulty. “ I can’t do very well 
without you, Sir, or else I would. Besides — ” 
“Go on.” 

“ Besides, I want you to have the five pounds.” 

“ What five pounds ?” asked Reuben ; “ that 
I gave your grandmother when—” 

“Oh no not that,” said Sarah, “but to pay 
that one back, and part of which we were obliged 
to spend. There’s five pounds reward offeredlbr 
me, you know, and you must claim that, for it’s 
through you I’m giving myself up. I shall say 
you have caught me, and—” 

“ Here ! hold hard — that will do ; no more of 
your highly colored fictions, Cousin Sarah ; it’s 
time you gave them up, at any rate,” he cried. 
“And as for the blood-money, upon my honor, 
you turn me to goose-flesh at the thought of it.” 

“Why shouldn't you have the money as well 
as any body else ?” said Sarah, reflectively. 

“ Suppose we argue the case in the morning ?” 

‘ ‘ As we go to Worcester ?” said Sarah ; “ very 
well. This good woman who traced me to-dav 
thinks it would be right to tell the truth, but, oh*! 

I can’t tell grandmother. You will break it to 
her, in vour best way, won’t you ?” 

“Well, yes.” 

“And I may rest here to-night ?”— turning to 
Lucy Jennings again. 

“You will share my bed,” said Lucy. 

“And in the morning — ” 

“ ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,’ ” 
quoted Lucy, solemnly, “and the evil thoughts, 
the evil judgment, born of this day we will keep 
from the better days to come, with God to helo 
us in the effort.” F 

. kShe looked at Reuben, as if he had had a share 
in the evil thoughts and judgment of that dav, 
and was not wholly blameless, and then passed 
fiom the room to a little kitchen beyond, where 
she was heard striking matches so energetically 
that her brother stood upon tiptoe, and peered 
through the glass door which divided them. 

“Be careful, Lucy,” he called out ; “ there’s a 
tub of preparation under the dresser, and you 
might blow us all up in a minute. ” 

t I , sa y the next time you put your 
lubbish here, instead of in the powder-shed I’d 
throw it into the garden ?” cried Lucy. 

. ^ 0l1 cei ’tainly mentioned something of the 

kind ; but as it was late, I thought— By George, 
she s done it ! 6 ’ 

The opening of an outer door, and the clatter- 
ing of something heavy along the gravel-path 
beyond, was significant of Lucv’s being as good 


| as her word ; and John Jennings, with his mouth 
half- way open, listened for a while, and then 
moved toward the kitchen. 

“As it may rain in the night, I think I’ll put 
it under shelter, if you’ll excuse me for a mo- 
ment,” he said, with great politeness, as he with- 
drew. 

Reuben turned to his second cousin. 

You are not well, Sarah. How have vou 
been living since we met last ?” 

“I have been starving almost,” said Sarah, 
iom deserted me. He was afraid of me, and 
ran away, after that night.” 

“ When you saved my life, perhaps.” 

“Oh, not so bad as that,” said Sarah; “Tom 
would not have hurt you : he’s onlv talk ! But 
that coining gang down stairs— I was afraid of 
them.” 

She shivered at what might have happened, 
Reuben thought, until she kept on shivering, and 
put one thin hand suddenly to her chin, to stop 
her teeth from chattering. 

“ You are cold.” 

A little cold — it’s the damp cellar, where a 
poor old woman let me rest last night, that’s done 
it. I shall be better to-morrow.” 

“You must have food.” 

Saiah Eastbell turned pale at the suggestion. 
Don t talk of food, please. That good friend 
of yours made me have something to eat and 
drink a little while ago, and it has nearly killed 
me. How good she is, Sir!” 

^" es > ^ begin to think so,” muttered Reuben. 
“If you knew how they love her down the 
dark streets where such as I live!” 

Used to live, said Reuben, correcting her : 
that s all gone by now.” 

“This is beginning again— isn’t it?” * 

“Yes — a new beginning!” 

. “ Opening with a prison, that’s the worst of 
it, ^ said Sarah; “for they won’t believe me, it 
isn’t likely. And then afterward — and it’s not 

long foi the first offense, I have heard Tom sav 

there’s life again at St. Oswald’s, if the commit- 
tee will let me go to grandmother. ” 

And then iom again — sneaking round for 
money, when he thinks that you have any.” 

“Poor Tom!” said Sarah, to our hero’s sur- i 
prise, “ he only came when he was hard up. Eor 
he has a high spirit, Mr. Reuben.” 

Veiy. I am afraid that it is high enough to 
hang him presently. There, don’t look angry ; 

^ ® Private opinion, and he’s not worth 

defending. Hasn t he. run away from vou ? — 
thank Heaven.” ^ 

He couldn t trust me,” she said, despondent- 
ly— not even Tom ! ” she cried. 

^ Haven t I trusted you — always ?” 

The girl looked at him strangely. 

Ah! I shall be never able to understand 

An(i yet 1 have tried hard too.” 

Well — do you trust me?” 

“ God bless you — yes !” 

She would have seized his hands and raised 
them to her lips in a spasmodic burst of grati- 
tude, but he evaded the compliment, and began 
walking up and down the little room. 

“ You must remember that we are relations, 
Sarah that you have a claim upon me, ” he said, 
tightly ; it s no use looking at this seriously 
I m a comic sort of man-fond of my joke, and 

with an objection to sentiment.” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


_ You tell a great many stories, like me,” said 
Ins cousin, sadly; “I suppose that it is in the 
family, and we can’t help it.” 

“ it you were not looking so woe-begone, I 
should set that down for ‘chaff,’” said Reuben 
pausing. 

•r r' l l st , now * you said y° u were a Dad man. As 
if I didn t know better than that!” 

Ah ! you are a knowing young woman.” 

‘ Grandmother told me all about you — and 
your father.” 

“ What do you know about my father?” 

That you and he didn’t agree verv well, 
though you were both excellent men.” 

“ It s an excellent world when you thoroughly 
know it,” said Reuben; “but then we never 
thoroughly know it, I am afraid.” 

Lucy entered at this juncture with a basin of 
gruel in her hand. 

“How you two have been talking! Didn’t 
the doctor tell you to keep yourself quiet?” said 
she to Sarah. 

“I have so much to say now,” she replied. 

“What do you mean by the doctor?” asked 
Reuben. 

“She fainted away in the street, and I took 
her to the nearest doctor’s, ” Lucy explained. 

“I am used to fainting — it’s weakness caused 
by growing too fast, they say,” said Sarah. 

I “ Yes, I remember: you do faint,” said Reu- 
ben, with a laugh; but the big dark eyes only 
j regarded him gravely. That was the second 
joke of his which had fallen flatly that even- 
! hig. • 

“Bid your cousin good-night,” said Lucy, 
“and we’ll go up stairs.” 

“And in the morning we must leave early, 
please,” said Sarah. 

“In the morning we will arrange that,” Reu- 
ben replied. 

“Thank you. Good-night, Sir.” 

“You need not ‘Sir’ me quite so much, 
cousin,” said Reuben; “it’s a deferential meth- 
i od of address that makes me blush, and blush- 
ing is not good for me. Good-night, Sarah. 
Good-night, Lucy.” 

“ I shall be down again presently,” said Lucy, 
meaningly. 


CHAPTER XXL 

WARNINGS. 

Reuben took this last remark of Lucy’s as a 
hint to remain, and went into the garden to see 
what had become of John Jennings. He found 
that gentleman reclining in an angle of one of 
the most tumble-down summer-houses that had 
been ever constructed, placidly smoking his long 
pipe, apart from the turmoil of Hope Lodge. 

“I have been looking for you, John,” Reuben 
said, as he took a seat near him. 

“How is she now?” asked John. 

“ She is very weak and low, but a night’s rest 
will do her good.” 

“I have known twenty nights’ rests only 
make her worse.” 

“Of whom are you speaking?” 

“ Lucv.” 

“ Oh !— Lucy.” 

“If she was only a little bit more patient — if 
she took things easily and smoothly — what a 


53 

difference it would make! She has upset half 
that preparation, Mr. Reuben.” 

“ You should not have kept it in the kitchen,” 
said Reuben, siding with Lucy for once. 

“ Who would have thought of her lighting a 
fire at this time of night ? — but then that poor 
girl was ordered gruel, certainly. Will you 
have some whisky ?” 

“What! have you brought the bottle out 
here ?” 

“No, but I can soon fetch it. So far as I am 
concerned, I limit myself strictly to one glass 
after supper — unless I have a friend with me — 
and yet Lucy says I’m a fuddler.” 

“ Lucy is a trifle hasty, that’s all,” said Reu- 
ben ; “but I’ll never say a word against that 
brave woman again — never in all my life, John, 
it I can help it. She’s a sister to be proud of.” 

“Ah ! and she’d make a good wife too,” said 
John, mildly and suggestively. 

“That she would.” 

“A very good wife. I should be glad to see 
her married to a respectable young man. ” 

“ 1 es — or an elder of her chapel, or the min- 
ister, or somebody that’s very good to match. 
So should I.” 

“ Ahem ! — would you indeed ?” 

John Jennings was quietly surprised. It was 
one of his idiosyncrasies to consider that Reuben 
was secretly fond of his sister. This idea was 
constantly receiving a severe shock, which, how- 
ever, he recovered from speedily. 

“And now, John, to business.” 

“ Business— what business?” asked John. 

“How much ready money can you lend me 
till next Saturday, when the ‘screw’ from the 
Trumpet turns up?” 

“Ready money, did you say? Bless my 
heart!” exclaimed John, “I haven’t seen any 
for weeks.” 

“That’s awkward. I’m going to Worcester 
to-morrow with my cousin.” 

“ There’s a great-coat of mine I sha’n’t want 
till the winter, Mr. Reuben — and there’s six sil- 
ver tea-spoons up stairs,” he added— “and you 
are very welcome to the eight-day clock, 
which they’ll always lend five shillings on — 
and there’s — ” 

Reuben' Culwick’s hand fell like a thunder-clap 
on John Jennings’s shoulder, and startled the 
pipe from his mouth to the ground, where it 
shivered into fifty pieces. 

“I thought as much, you secretive old tor- 
toise,” cried Reuben: “you’re hard up, and 
keeping it to yourself, and I can only get at the 
truth in this way. Now how much can I lend 
you?— for it’s no use going on like this any 
longer. ” 

“Then you’re not hard up ?” 

“I’m as rich as a Jew. I have got an ac- 
count at the Lambeth Savings-Bank — I am pos- 
itively rolling in wealth. What shall it be ? A 
hundred thousand pounds till I see you again, 
or three or four sovereigns till the Saxe-Gotha 
stumps up ?” 

John Jennings was silent for a while, although 
he sat and sniffed at the night air in a curious 
and excitable wav. Presently he put his arm 
before his eyes with a faint, “Excuse me,” and 
finally said, in a low, nervous treble, 

“ It’s like you, Mr. Reuben. You are always 
thoughtful of us, when I try hard not to think. 


54 SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


Times are slackish, and I’m a baby in them. I 
know I am, but I can’t very well help it. If 
three pounds will not inconvenience you just 
now, it will be something like a godsend.” 

“ Here they are.” 

“I get plenty of credit in my own particular 
business, of course, for I am a well-known man,” 
said John, after thanking his lodger heartily, 
and stowing the sovereigns away in his pocket ; 
“ but Lucy will pay for every thing for the house. 
It’s a good habit too — I don’t blame her in the 
least.” 

“No — I wouldn’t.” 

“Mr. Splud’s benefit will fetch me straight 
again ; I am the first- man he will pay, he says.” 
“That’s kind of him, if he means it.” 

“ Splud’s a very well-meaning man,” asserted 
Mr. Jennings. 

“And keeps on ordering fire -works — eh, 
John ?” ’ 

“He has given me an excellent order for his 
benefit,” said John, cheerfully, “and he tells me 
that he has sold a heap of tickets.” 

“Then I would ask for my money before the 
fire-works are let off.” 

“ Oh ! I couldn’t do that,” said John, “ that — 
that would only lead to words, and hurt the 
man s feelings. He will pay — depend upon it, 
Mr. Reuben, that he will pay me every far- 
thing.” J 

The figure of Lucy Jennings emerged from 
the shadows, and came toward them. 

“ What have you two men to arrange so con- 
fidentially between you, that you get away from 
the house?” said Lucy, querulously, as she ad- 
vanced. 

“I came here for coolness,” said John in re- 
ply, and Reuben Culwick did not offer any rea- 
son for his change of locality. 

“ I suppose you had something to say that you 
did not wish me to hear, ” said Lucy. ‘ 4 You need 
not trouble me with excuses, John— I know what 
they are worth.” 

“ How is Sarah Eastbell now ?” asked Reuben, 
by way of diversion. 

“I have left her trying to sleep, but she will 
fail. ” 

“A good night’s rest is necessary before her 
journey.” 

“ To Worcester, you mean ?” said Lucy. 

Yes ; I shall take her down to Worcester 
to-morrow. I think that it is the best and wisest 
step, and that it will be easy to get her off when 
the facts are clearly stated.” 

“ You don’t see that she is going to be ill?” 

“ 111 ! — did the doctor say so ?” 

“ He said that she was very weak, and that I 
must be careful of her.” 

“ What is the matter with her?” 

“ She has undergone great mental excitement, 
and endured much privation,” said Lucy, “and 
it is an utter break-down.” 

“ I don’t see it,” cried Reuben. 

“ We will wait till to-morrow. I thought that 
I would warn you to-night — as you are so very 
fond of this cousin — that you can not go to 
Worcester yet a while,” said Lucy. 

“‘As I am so very fond of this cousin,”’ 
quoted Reuben “ poor second cousin, with only 
my immense affection to rely upon at the turn- 
ing-point of her miserable existence.” 

“ She can rely on her God,” said Lucy. 


“ I wouldn’t, Lucy — I really wouldn’t to-night 
go on in that kind of way, ” pleaded her feeble 
brother. 

“She can rely on you too, Lucy, unless vour 
interest in her has died out with your rescue,” 
said Reuben. 

“We shall see,” said Lucy, evasively. 

♦ 

CHAPTER XXII. 

ALL THE NEWS. 

Miss Jennings was right in her judgment. 
Sarah Eastbell did not go to Worcester the next 
day — did not remember her promise to accom- 
pany her cousin Reuben — did not know even the 
man with the big beard who leaned over the bed- 
side and called her by her name. 

The crisis had come, and Sarah Eastbell had 
a battle to fight with brain-fever, or with a strange 
delirium which was akin to it. When she came 
back to herself, she lay as powerless as Grand- 
mother Eastbell at St. Oswald’s, of whom she 
first thought, along with the fleeting fancy that 
she was in one of the wings of the almshouses, 
and that the old woman was not far awav. A 
fortnight had passed then, and the face of the 
nurse had almost died out of her memory. 

“ How— is— grandmother?” she asked", with 
difficulty, and pausing at each word. 

“She is well.” 

“ Will— you — tell— her— that— I’m— better, 

please?” 

“Yes.” 

Sarah Eastbell remained satisfied with the 
promise, and was silent for a while. She slept 
a great deal that day and the next, and ate but 
little, and it was doubtful whether the complete 
piosti ation yvhich followed would not terminate 
the odd life of Second-cousin Sarah. 

The woman who attended upon her, and who 
she began to recollect was the fire- work-maker’s 
sister, was kinder than she had ever. been, and 
watched her with great gravity of interest as she 
hovered on the border land of life and death. 

Lucy talked to her also with a strange earnest- 
ness of those divine truths which are not to be 
dwelt upon in the pages of a story-book, and 
Sarah Eastbell listened with reverence. 

“ You think that 1 am going to die ?” she said 
once. 

Miss Jennings never evaded a fact, but she 
was more considerate than it was her habit to be 
when she replied, ’ 

“ I would be prepared, at all events.” 

“I’m not afraid,” said Sarah Eastbell. “I 
have not done any one harm, and this life is not 
worth stopping in — is it?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Lucv* “life’s n 
mystery, Sarah.” 3 

“You don’t value it, I think.” 

“ If 1 could change places with you, I would.” 
And yet you have a brother "to look after, 
just as I have my grandmother,” said Sarah. 

Oh, poor grandmamma! I wonder how you 
are, and if you think of me at times ! ” 

“ You will know all about her soon. Your 
cousin Reuben returns to-morrow.” 

“ Has he been there?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What a good man he is !” exclaimed Sarah. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ It isn’t like men, I fancy, to think of other peo- 
ple so much as he does.” 

“ He is strange.” 

“I said that he was good,” said Sarah, per- 
sistently. 

“ I hope he is,” answered Lucy Jennings. 

“ Oh, I am sure he is !” cried the invalid, with 
enthusiasm. “I wish that I could be suddenly 
very beautiful and very rich.” 


without the door ; and both women colored, and 
the elder one rose from her chair in her surprise. 
“May I come in and see the invalid ?” 

“ He is back a day before his time,” said Lucy. 
“ May he come in ?” she said to Sarah. 

‘‘Yes, .to be sure,” answered the sick girl. 
Reuben Cuhvick advanced on tiptoe into the 
room, and walked to the bedside of his cousin, 
whose face brightened at the sight of him. 



“It is not a good wish,” said Lucy; “but 
why ?” 

“I would marry Cousin Reuben.” 

“ You lying there, and talking of marriage !” 

“If I died, he would have my money; if I 
lived, I would try — oh, so hard! — to make him 
happy.” 

“You’re not fit for him, and never will be,” 
said Lucy, more snappish than she had been hith- 
erto ; “ and this is very foolish talk.” 

“ What is very foolish talk?” said a deep voice 


She was very weak, and could not reach her 
hand toward him, but there was a faint smile of 
welcome on her wan face. There was a great 
contrast between the vigorous ruddy health of 
the man fresh from the country, and this fading, 
fluttering life before him. 

Reuben Culwick regarded the invalid intently 
behind the smile with which he masked the shock 
that her weakness gave him. He had been com- 
pelled to leave London to report on a stormy 
election in the country, and he had hardly ex- 



56 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


pected to find her strong and well, though he had 
been more sanguine of ultimate results than he 
was at that moment of his return. 

“Well, Sarah— better, I hope?” he said, in 
the cheeriest voice he could assume. 

Sarah smiled faintly, and shook her head. 

“ Oh yes, you are,” said Reuben, confidently: 


ocuiu ivcuucu, cuimueiiiij: 

“you have got your wits back, although you 
have been talking foolishly to Lucy. May I 
inquire the subject of conversation ?” 

“No, you mayn’t,” answered Lucy. 

I will tell you to-morrow, if I am worse ” 
said Sarah ; “ to-day you have news for me.” ’ 

“ To be sure I have. What a blockhead lam!” 
“ Is it good news?” 

“Do you think that I would bring bad news 
all the way from Worcester?” he said, laugh- 
ing — “that I wouldn’t have left it behind me, or 
dropped it out of window before reaching Hope 
Lodge ?” 1 

“ Go on, please,” said Sarah, anxiously. 

I went across country after writing my arti- 
cle for the Trumpet — by-the-way, the Trumpet is 
getting on in the world, Lucy, and there are 
signs in the air of an increase of wage for R. C. 
and reached Worcester yesterday afternoon.” 
“And saw grandmother?” 

“Who was as lively as a cricket. Bv George, 
if she wasn’t toddling about the court-yard, and 
bullying Mother Muggeridge for not putting her 
kettle on to boil!” 

“ Who had dressed her, then ?” 

“Miss Holland, I hear.” 

“That is another friend I had almost forgot- 
ten, ” said Sarah. ‘ ‘ Well ?” 

“Well — I told her that you were staying at 
Hope Lodge with me and the Jenningses, for 
change of air — that you had not been very well 
but that I should bring you down to Worcester 
shortly. ” 

‘‘You should not have said that,” said Sarah 
— and yet I should like to be taken to Worces- 
ter if I die,” she added, thoughtfully. 

“ But you are not going to die, ’’"said Reuben, 
quickly ; “ don’t get that into your head, for 
Heavens sake! 

“ For Heaven’s sake it may be as well to think 
of it a little, said Lucy Jennings, gravely. 

Reuben Culwick did not dispute the assertion 
but he moved about the room uneasily as if dis- 
posed to do so. Suddenly he stopped. 

. “ ^es, are ri ght, Lucy,” he said. “ Sarah 
is a brave little woman who will not fret herself 
to death over the worst, and who will get strong 
if she can.” 

I!Si hat n d0 y0U Cal1 the worst? ” asked Lucy. 

Ill tell you some other time— this is not a 
place for argument,” answered Reuben, evasive- 
ly ; besides, I haven’t quite done with mv news 
yet.— Sarah, do you remember that bad sovereign 
lorn asked you to change at the grocer’s for him ?” 
“Ah, yes!” 

“Well, I have been to the grocer’s— I have 
.stated the matter with lucidity and eloquence — I 
have appealed to the grocer’s feelings— I have 
made him shed tears over his own sugar — and he 
says that rather than prosecute, after my gen- 
tlemanly explanation, he’ll see the authorities at 
th ®~ Ahem! how warm it is to-day, Lucv!” 

Mr. Giles does not think that I tried to‘pass 

in mnnpv rmur * 


bad money now?” cried Sarah. 

‘Not a bit of it. And after my statement, 


1 Sarah, I went round to the police station, and 
threatened every body, from the Chancellor of the 
Exchequer to the inspector on duty, with libel, if 
they did not take down their absurd bills about 
you. I told them that the grocer had discovered 
his mistake in making the charge— that he with- 
drew it— that it was even a splendid sovereign, 
considering of what stuff it was composed— and 
the inspector made a handsome apology, and ask- 
ed to shake hands with me.” 

“ I don’t see the necessity for this gross exag- 
geration, ” said Lucv, severely. 

“But I do. Why, Second- cousin Sarah’s 
laughing— almost.— Aren’t you ?” 

“Iam very grateful for the trouble that you 
have taken,” said Sarah, “and I feel very happy 
now. ” 

I hen 1 11 leave you with those sensations to 
get strong upon.” 

Lucy followed him from the room. 

“You are in high spirits to-day, Mr. Reuben,” 
she said ; “ is there any reason for it ?” 

“Only that I am at home again — that the 
Penny Trumpet is blowing itself into public fa- 
vor and knowing people say that it’s my doing 
— that all’s well every where.” 

Even there ? asked Lucy, indicating by a 
gesture the room which she had quitted. 

“ Yes, I hope so.” 

“I think that she will die.” 

“ I’ll not believe it.” 

“ It is best for her that she should, rather than 
face the cruel world again.” 

“The world may change for her— we have 
helped to change it in our little way alreadv ” 
said Reubfen. 

“ You have gone a strange way to work, at 
any rate.” ’ 

“ Ah ! you don’t admire my style, that is all.” 

“ You should keep your flippant style of nar- 
rative for the novel that you can’t sell.” 

“Now, confound it, Lucy — ” 

But Lucy had gone back into the room after 
that extremely ill-natured remark, without wait- 
ing for Reuben Culwick’s protest. 

Reuben went into his own apartment, and 
walked up and down with his hands in his pock- 
ets, and his hat on the back of his head. 

“What an ill-tempered, aggravating, sharp- 
tongued, good-hearted Christian porcupine that 
woman is! he muttered. ‘ ‘ For the novel that 
I can t sell, indeed!— that is the unkindest cut 
of all. Something must be wrong down stairs, 
or Sarah has tired her too much, or Tots has 
been up to her larks while I have been away 
Now wteres my little fairy who brightens up 
this fiie-work establishment, and never gives a 
disappointed man a hard word? What have 
they done with Tots to-day, I wonder?” 

. He went down bail's, where was John Jen- 
n mgs up to his eyes in powder, and colored fire 
and J e "S ths ’ the Picture of a busv man. 

Well weren’t they glad to see you?” ex- 
claimed John, without leaving off his work 
fh * wa t0 J eG me .-they have been laughing 
yLUCy - What is aU this 

“Yes.” 

“Hasn’t his benefit come off, then?” 

yes, with immense success. This is for 


. . 7 ouuuess. i ms is for 

a. repetition fete. The big devices and the fiery 
pigeon business were very much admired.” * 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


57 


“And you got your money?” 

“What a man you are, Mr. Reuben, to think 
about money!” said John, with a cracked little 
laugh. “ I have some of it.” 

“ How much ?” 

‘ He paid me seven pounds off the account, 
and he will settle for the lot presently. And that 
reminds me that I owe you—” 

“ We’ll talk of that in a day or two,” said Reu- 
ben, impatiently. “ Where’s Tots ?” 

“Tots — why, up stairs.” 

“ I haven’t seen her.” 

“ She doesn’t go into the back-room, for fear 
of disturbing your cousin. But she plays in your 
apartments, and Lucy looks in, and makes sure 
that she is not up to mischief.” 

“ She is not in my room,” said Reuben, turn- 
ing somewhat pale at the mere possibility of a 
new trouble approaching him. 

“Perhaps she is in mine.” 

“ Go and see,” said Reuben, peremptorily. 

“Certainly,” said John Jennings, “and I’ll 
bring her down with me. Keep an eye on the 
shop, please ; and you 11 find some whisky in 
the cupboard, if you would like a little refresh- 
ment after your long journey.” 

Reuben did not answer. When John Jennings 
had gone, he, without any regard to the business 
interests, took a turn round the back garden, and 
then walked to the front of the house, and stood 
looking up and down the street with grave in- 
tentness. Presently John and his sister came 
out together, white and scared, and joined him 
on the pavement. 

“She’s gone! By Heaven, you have lost 
her!” he exclaimed. 

“ It’s— it’s very strange,” said John, “but we 
can’t find her any where.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 

Reuben Cue wick did not wait to hear any 
more, but ran at his utmost speed to the end of 
the street in the hope of overtaking the little feet 
that he thought might have strayed in the direc- 
tion of the market-gardens where he had been 
accustomed to take her. But there was no sign 
of his adopted girl, and we may say at once that 
Reuben never saw her in Hope Street again. As 
suddenly as she had crossed his life, bettering 
and brightening it as by a strange influence for 
good, so suddenly did she pass away, leaving not 
a trace behind by which to follow her. 

When he came back to Hope Lodge, baffled 
and heart-sick, when to all the inquiries which 
he made there was only one answer returned, 
that no one had seen poor Tots, the stern con- 
sciousness came to him that he had lost her — 
that the little daughter, friend, companion, would 
never again be as sunshine to his home. He did 
not betray his thoughts ; he went on with his 
search ; he expressed a confidence in her discov- 
ery that he did not realize. He “billed” every 
dead-w'all in Camberwell with his “Rewards;” 
he gave all the information that he had to im- 
part to the police; he attended at the police 
court to state her case before a magistrate, and 
to get the facts into the newspapers ; but Tots 
returned not, and every effort was in vain. One 


or two scraps of information, real or false, came 
to the front to bewilder him, but there was no 
real clew obtained. A woman in the street had 
seen a well-dressed gentleman stooping and talk- 
ing to a little golden-haired child in the Camber- 
well Road, and upon her asking what was the 
matter, she remembered the gentleman saying 
that the little girl had strayed from home, but 
that he was going to take her back again, as the 
child had told him where she lived ; but whether 
this was Tots or not it was impossible to prove, 
and the woman begged so hard for remuneration 
for coming to Hope Lodge that Reuben believed 
she had invented the story. 

In three weeks’ time Reuben Culwick had 
learned to despair. He did not know how much 
he had loved the child till the house was desti- 
tute of her presence, and the little chair stood 
empty in the corner, and he could only look at 
it through his tears. Sometimes he wished that 
she had died, and that he had seen her buried, 
rather than have lost her thus, and be left to 
wonder where she was, and in whose hands. 
He became a grave man, who did not care for 
intrusion on his thoughts, and who resented it 
with bitterness. He sat in his room and brood- 
ed on the mystery ; he left his desk unopened for 
days together; he tried to read, and failed; and 
when a strange stroke of good luck — in its little 
way— came to him, he took it grimly as a man 
whose spirits misfortune had crushed out. The 
novel which had drifted into many hands had 
found a patron at last, and the sum of twenty- 
five pounds was offered for it, the publisher tak- 
ing on himself all risk. It was not a large sum, 
but it was more than Reuben had calculated 
upon, possibly more than he had been in posses- 
sion of since his quarrel with his father, more 
than of late days he had thought the book worth. 
He accepted the terms, and pocketed his money, 
which did not make his heart lighter; he had 
rather have seen Tots back than his first novel 
in all the glory of paper and print, and that is 
saying an immense deal for this young man’s 
love for the child. 

Three weeks had passed, we repeat, and they 
were like three years to Reuben Culwick. His 
second cousin was getting well then, although 
coming back to strength with slow degrees ; and 
he was glad of that, if he showed but little sign 
of rejoicing in those dull days. The loss of one 
protegee appeared to have weakened his interest 
in another, although he was always kind to Sa- 
rah Eastbell. John Jennings and his sister he 
had not forgiven in his heart; he attributed the 
loss of Tots to their want of ordinary care, and 
when, on one occasion, Lucy would have sermon- 
ized upon his trouble, he turned upon her with 
words of acrimony which she never afterward 
forgot. In her own way she was sorry for the 
child’s loss too ; but he did not believe it, and 
he told her that she had never liked her, and 
was glad that she was gone, and that at all 
events he would not have any homily or sym- 
pathy from her. 

The three weeks had turned, and the fourth 
week had commenced with work on the Trumpet 
that there was no setting aside — which was all 
the better for Reuben at that time, and took him 
out of himself — when Sarah Eastbell found 
strength to walk down stairs, supported by Miss 
Jennings op one side and by Reuben on the oth- 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


58 

er. The two who had rescued Sarah from dan- 
ger had each a share in her first great step to- 
ward convalescence. Reuben had been anxious 
to place his own room at her disposal, but Lucy 
Jennings had interfered at once. 

“No, that won’t do,” she had said; “she 
must keep with me and John until she returns 
to Worcester.” 

“Iam not going to be in it.” 

“How’s that?” asked Lucy. 

He had always objected to be questioned, and 
he was disposed to be harsh and irritable at 
times now. 

“Because I shall be a hundred miles away,” 
he added, sharply. 

“ On business ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I am glad that you are beginning to work 
again,” she said, very meeklv. 

“Why?” 

“You are always at your best when you are 
most busy.” 

He did not reply, though her soft answers sur- 
prised him not a little. It was only when he was 
in high spirits that she was full of acerbity ; in 
his trouble she was a gentle woman enough. 
They were like the two figures in the child’s 
weather- house, and only one could come into 
the light at a time. 

They took Sarah Eaktbell down stairs, and 
there she said to Reuben, 

“ This is one step closer to Worcester, cousin.” 
“Yes,” answered Reuben; “you and I will 
be marching side by side into St. Oswald’s pres- 
ently.” 

Which they never did. 

When he had left for town, and for his in- 
structions from the Trumpet , Sarah turned quick- 
ly to Lucy — 

He is better to-day. The old self is coming 
back that made him so dear a man.” 

“Don’t say that,” cried Lucy; “don’t let a 
man know at any time that any one thinks he’s 
dear to any body.” 

Sarah laughed at this inelegant summing up, 
and Lucy added, sententiously, “It would spoil 
the best of men.” 

The next day Sarah was well enough to be of 
use a little, and she volunteered her services to 
John Jennings, who was still at work for the 
Saxe-Gotha. He had not done well with Mr. 
Splud, in whom he still had a certain amount of 
faith, despite the fallacy of many promises ; but 
the public came on fine nights to see the fire- 
works, and Mr. Splud doled out a sovereign now 
and then, and kept the pyrotechnist going — that 
is, going a little further down the hill each week. 

Sarah found that she could manage “ the 
lengths” better than John Jennings, and the 
long pipe-like strips, which were filled with a 
thin vein of gunpowder, and were afterward 
twisted into a variety of shapes, grew under her 
hands more rapidly than under Three- fingered 
Jack’s. John Jennings was struck with this 
rapidity, and pondered over it. An odd idea 
that had been in his head some davs took action 
upon it also. He was an amazingly slow man 
as a rule, but he went off like one of his own 
1 ockets after Sarah had been assisting him for a 
week, and Reuben was back again and oscilla- 
ting in the old fashion between Camberwell and 
town. Sarah was stronger then ; she had walked 


round the garden once that day before beginning 
work. 

“You are very handy, Sarah,” John said, 
dreamily regarding her, and leaving off his work 
to observe her more attentively. “ It is astonish- 
ing how quickly you have taken to the business.” 
“ If I am of assistance, I am glad.” 

“ What a comfort you would be to a man a 
week or two before November, when he doesn’t 
know which way to turn !” 

“ Why November?” 

“ Guy Fawkes season.” 

“Oh !” said Sarah; “I shall be a long way 
from here before November.” 

John Jennings was about to say something 
very quickly in reply, but he paused and stared 
at her instead. Suddenly he got up, unlocked 
his cupboard, and refreshed himself with a small 
glass of whisky behind the cupboard door, which 
he kept well between Sarah and the bottle. Lucy 
was up stairs setting Reuben’s room to rights*, 
and there was a fair field before him. 

“ You are not obliged to go away without you 
like,” he said, as he came back and sat down. 

“ Oh yes, I am.” 

“ You are very handy,” he said again, “and 
I m not so old as you fancy by a good manv 
years, and you are quite a young woman. When 
you are well and strong, we might make a match 
of it, Sarah. Why not ?” 

“ Good gracious!” said Sarah Eastbell. 

It was her first offer, and she took it with a 
fair amount of philosophy, despite her weakness. 
She was more astonished than confused, although 
there was a flickering of color for an instant on 
her cheeks. 

“I don’t want you to hurry over it,” he con- 
tinued, confidentially, “ or to tell Lucy any thing 
about it yet, or even to drop a hint to vour 
cousin Reuben.” 

“ They are my two best friends.” 

es, exactly ; but till you have made up vour 
mind, I wouldn’t. It will save a deal of bother. ” 

“ But I have quite made up my mind never 
to marry, thank you, Mr. Fireworks.” 

, £ “Mr. Jennings,” he said, correcting her ; 

ai fist in fire-works, which are very profitable 
things.” • v 

“.I ho P e th .ey are , for your sake,” said Sarah, 
anxious to soften her refusal as much as possible, 
and that you will make your fortune by them 
presently. And if you will never talk like this 
again— for it is great nonsense, isn’t it?— I will 
not speak of it to any one. ” 

“ Thank you, it might be as well,” said John 
beginning his work again ; “ but it was on my 
mind, and I thought that I would mention it.” 

“It was not worth mentioning to a poor bit of 
a thing like me, who has hardly got back to life.” 

Wasn t it, though ?’ said Mr. Jennings. “ I 
think it was. And you are not a poor bit of a 
thing, but growing a very fine young woman, by 
degrees. J 

‘‘Oh, Sir, please don’t.” 

“ And you are very handy at the lengths, and 
so pleasant and good-tempered over them, and 
Lucy seems to like you so much, and to be less 
disagree— 1° be so much happier, I mean,” he 
added, quickly, “with you in the house.” 

“What a good woman she is!” added Sarah 
striving hard for a divergence, feeling half dis- 
posed to laugh, and then to cry. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ Yes ’ awfully good, isn’t she ? She’s hardly 
my style, he added, in his confidential tone 
again, but some people would be very fond of 
her. She s brisk, you see.” 

“Yes,” said Sarah, “and thoughtful, and in- 
dustrious-, and good. ” 

“You said good before,” replied John; “but 
she is not lively — she does not brighten up a 
place as you do. ” 

“ If you are going to say any thing more about 


how forlorn you 11 be when the old lady dies at 
Worcester — how lonely I shall be when Lucy 
marries and goes away. ” 

“ Is she likely to marry soon?” 

“I sometimes fancy that your cousin Reuben 
and she understand each other.” 

. ‘‘ That must be wrong,” replied Sarah, de- 
cisively. “I don’t think she likes Reuben much.” 

“You are a bad judge, Sarah. You didn’t 
think I liked you much.” 



me, Mr. Jennings, I must find my way up stairs. 
I’m very weak,” she pleaded; “I can’t bear to 
hear you talk in this way.” 

“I have done talking, ” said Jennings ; “ don’t 
go. Lucy will be sure to ask what you have 
come up stairs for, and worm all the truth out 
of you. I haven’t offended you?” 

“ No, I am not offended.” 

“ I haven’t jumped at this in a hurry. Ever 
since you have been here I have been thinking 


“ Oh, you are not coming round again to that 
foolish subject!” cried Sarah. 

“ No— only to say that I do like you, and that 
weeks ago I sent up my shells and maroons from 
the Saxe-Gotha with only half the quantity of 
bang in them, lest they should be too noisy for 
you when you were lying ill here. Wasn’t that 
love?” 

“That was considerate; but — ” 

“Shop!” 


60 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“A customer!” cried John Jennings, very 
much astonished. “Bless my soul, so there is !” 

John Jennings peeved over the little wire blind 
that screened the back parlor from vulgar gaze, 
and when he had regarded the customer suf- 
ficiently he went into the shop, and faced him 
behind the grimy counter. 

“ What can I have the pleasure of showing 
you, Sir?” he said, politely. 

“Is this Hope Lodge?” was the query in re- 

pty- 

“This is Hope Lodge, Sir. Jennings’s.” 

“Ah, I’m wrong;” and the big man walked 
slowly and ponderously toward the door again. 

“ There is only one Hope Lodge in the street,” 
John called after him. The broad pair of shoul- 
ders of the new-comer had blocked up the door- 
way in the act of exit, but there was a pause, 
and then the heavy face revolved once more in 
the direction of the pyrotechnist. 

“Do you know any one in the street of the 
name of Culwick?” he asked, gruffly. 

“Reuben Culwick?” inquired John. 

“ Yes, that is the name.” 

“ He lives here, Sir.” 

“Then why the devil didn’t you tell me so, 
instead of blinking your eyelids at me?” shouted 
the man, so fiercely that John Jennings backed 
against a gross of rocket sticks, and brought them 
rattling to the floor. 

“This is the first time you have mentioned 
the name. Is it any thing from the Trumpet f 

“ Trumpet — whose trumpet?” 

“Ah, I see y6u don’t know,” said John, laugh- 
ing a little. “ It doesn’t matter. Mr. Culwick 
is not at home.” 

“ When will he be home ?” 

“I can’t say, Sir, really.” 

“You don’t seem able to say any thing sensi- 
bly,” said the impolite stranger; “but I may 
take it that Reuben Culwick lives in this den.” 

“ You may take it or leave it, for the matter 
of that, Sir,” said John, put out by the man’s 
observations. “ Den, indeed !” he muttered. 

“ Can’t you keep a civil tongue in your head?” 
was the next question. 

“ Can’t you ?” was the rejoinder. 

The white face took purplish hues of indigna- 
tion, and a thick yellow stick, with a big gold 
knob at the top, like a door-handle, vibrated om- 
inously in the hand of its owner. John Jennings 
stood a little farther back from his side of the 
counter, and kept an eye on the irritable stran- 
ger. 

Do you know who I am?” the new-comer 
said, pompously. “Have you any idea whom 
you are addressing ?” 

“ I haven’t the slightest idea.” 

“I am Reuben Culwick’s father.” 

. “ The d euce you are!” ejaculated John Jen- 
nings. “Oh, good gracious! Lord help us! 
What a wonderful thing that you should come 
here ! What will he say ?— what will Lucy say ? 

— what will he do? — what shall we all do? 
Will you call again, Sir?— will you walk in?— 
will you have a drop of Trumpet ? and shall I 
send to the whisky office for him, and tell him 
that you are waiting? Excuse me, Mr. Culwick, 
but I feel a little faint.’ And the pvrotechnist 
leaned against his back shelves, and clutched 
his forehead. 

^ ou are not quite right in your head, young 


man,” said Mr. Culwick senior, stolidly regard- 
ing him. “Isn’t there any one more sensible on 
the premises, to whom I can intrust a message?” 

“Oh yes, Sir, one or two,” said John, mod- 
estly. “ Will you please to do us the honor of 
stepping inside?” 

He opened the parlor door, and Simon Cul- 
wick, of Sedge Hill, reflected for a moment, 
with his bushy eyebrows closing over his eyes. ' 
Then he followed* Mr. Jennings into the parlor, 
where his grandniece, whom he had never seen, 
was still working busily at the “lengths.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

MR. CULWICK SHOWS HIS WEAKNESS. 

Simon Culwick walked into the parlor and 
sat down, crossing two big hands (on which glit- 
tered half a dozen diamond rings) upon his stick. 
John Jennings closed the door, and while stand- 
ing with his back toward it contrived to lock it 
and slip the key into his coat tails. Reuben's 
father was captured ; he must not leave till Lucy 
had seen him or Reuben had come back, and 
he would make sure of him, at least, till he had 
stepped up stairs and told Lucy what a distin- 
guished guest was waiting in the parlor. 

“ I’ll send my sister down to you, Sir, at once. 
You’ll find that she can talk to you better than 
I can,” he said, before disappearing up the stair- 
case, which came into the room inelegantly. 

Simon Culwick muttered something that might 
have passed for assent by any one of an imagina- 
tive turn of mind, and then moved his head to 
and fro, as a mechanical figure might have done, 
and took stock of the home upon which he had 
intruded. The broad face retained its expression 
of stolidity, although there were little quiverings 
of the eyelids that seemed to suggest some faint 
interest, or some passing surprise, in things which 
came beneath his notice; the poverty, for in- 
stance, that was apparent in the worn furniture 
and the old floor-cloth, from which the pattern 
had been scuffled years ago ; the pale-faced lanky 
girl working at something which reminded him 
of macaroni unduly developed ; the intensely 
black hue of the ceiling, the cracked condition 
of the looking-glass upon the mantel-piece, and 
the murkiness and obscurity of a dull old picture 
hanging by a half-frayed blind-cord above it. 
He was a man of observation, though he took in 
every thing with extraordinary slowness and 
gravity, as though he preferred his ideas to filter 
through his brain. He did nothing in a hurry ; 
he had done nothing in a hurry for jears, with 
the. exception of flying into a passion at the op- 
position that encountered him at times, despite 
the respect and reverence to which his wealth 
should have entitled him. 

Sarah Eastbell, ignorant of the visitor’s name 
and position, glanced furtively at her great-un- 
cle when she was sure that he was not look- 
ing at her, and thought what an overgrown and 
ugly man he w as, and wondered why he was so 
pale, and whether even in his own heart he could 
imagine that those big slabs of iron-gray whisk- 
ers— pork-chop whiskers — were any ornaments 
to his exterior man. There had been high 
words in the shop between the visitor and Mr. 
Jennings ; there was money to pay awav, and 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


Mr. Jennings had gone up stairs to find it, or, 
failing in his search, to send down his sister to 
explain the necessity of calling again. In her 
fathers time she remembered very vividly ren- 
contres of this character. This heavy gentle- 
man with the broad face was the poor-rate, or 
the water-rate, or the man who meant to cut the 
gas off, and he was not going to stand any more 
of Mr. J ennings’s nonsense. Then the glitter of 
the jewelry upon the fat fingers attracted her, 
and she thought lie could hardly be the “ rates 
he must be a Jew broker come to bid for the fur- 
niture, or to cart it away on account of the pay- 
ments not having been punctually kept up. 

Suddenly his deep voice bayed forth at her 
and startled her. 

“ What do you want for it?” he said ; and she 
looked at him now, and discovered that he was 
staring at the picture above the looking-glass. 

“For that, Sir?” she answered. “I don’t 
think that it’s for sale.” 

‘ * What’s the good of it up there ?” 

“I don’t know, Sir.” 

“ Nor any one else,” he said, scornfully. “ The 
gas and smoke and flies have made a mass of 
dirt of it.” 

“It’s not dirt — Miss Jennings scrubbed it 
last Saturday,” replied Sarah, in defense of the 
family cleanliness. 

“Scrubbed it!” cried Mr. Simon Culwick, be- 
traying extraordinary animation now. 

“Yes — with soap and water.” 

“Mercy on us!” ejaculated Mr. Culwick. 

He was utterly amazed and thrown off his 
guard. The sudden announcement of the death 
of his son would not have prostrated him half 
as much ; he breathed with difficulty, and the 
eyes in his head seemed more than ever disposed 
to come out of it. “This was an exceedingly 
funny old gentleman,” thought Sarah Eastbell. 

Suddenly he composed himself, and all his ex- 
citement sank a long way within him, and left 
him as heavy as before, even a trifle sleepy, if 
Sarah might judge by the drooping character of 
the thick eyebrows. 

“Soap and water are not the best things for 
pictures,” he said, in a low growl, “although it 
smartens them up a little. But that’s a poor 
daub, which nothing would hurt a great deal.” 

Sarah thought so too, but did not answer. 
Mr. Culwick looked round the room again, and 
gazed thoughtfully out of window at the distant 
summer-house, its acute angle toward total ruin 
interesting him a little. Suddenly the white 
face was upturned toward the painting again. 

“If it were ever so good, it would spoil up 
there,” he said. 

“Indeed, Sir?” 

“I might make a bid for it before I went 
away, bad as it is, if your brother would not 
mind taking it down presently,” he continued. 
“It’s impossible to make out what it is like up 
there.” 

“It’s a girl’s head, I think.” 

“It might as well be a sheep’s,” growled Mr. 
Culwick. “Can’t you get it down now before 
your brother comes ?” 

“ He is not my brother — only one of those 
who have been kind to me in this house.’ 

“Oh! they are kind people here, then?” he 
inquired, still looking at the picture. 

“Very good, and very kind.” 


“And very rich,” he added, scornfully, and 
with not too much good taste. 

“No, Sir; very poor. That makes their 
kindness and their goodness all the more grate- 
ful to me,” she said, thoughtfully, “and all the 
more precious to God.” 

“Eh — what?” said the big man, taken aback 
by the sudden earnestness with which his com- 
panion spoke. 

“And if you have come to do them a bad 
turfa I— I— hope you’ll think about it twice, 
Sir,” cried Sarah, leaning forward, with the 
tears swimming in her eyes, “for they are hon- 
est, hard-working people, and deserving of your 
charity. ” 

I have nothing to give them,” he said, very 
firmly, in reply. 

“If you have nothing to take away from them, 
that will do. They only wish to be left alone, to 
have time given them to turn round.” 

“Oh, do they?” and once more the eves 
glanced up at the picture which had attracted 
so much of his attention, and even weakened the 
motive force that had moved this huge mass of 
man’s flesh to Hope Street, Camberwell. “Does 
Mr. Reuben Culwick want time to turn round 
too ?” 


“He, Sir!” exclaimed Sarah, with a musical 
little laugh. “Why, no.” 

“I wish he did; he would be more tractable 
and respectful,” muttered the father to himself. 

“ Mr. Reuben Culwick is a gentleman,” cried 
Sarah, full of eloquence now — “a real born gen- 
tleman, the son of the richest man in Worces- 
ter.” 


“ Has he told you that ?” said Simon Culwick, 
with more eagerness. 

“ No ; but I know it for myself. I have lived 
for some time in Worcester, where Reuben’s fa- 
ther is well known.” 

“I should think he was!” said the other, con- 
ceitedly. 

“He is not a gentleman like the son is — not 
a bit of a gentleman — but a proud, hard man, 
without a morsel of love for his own boy.” 

“You must have had all this stuff from Reu- 
ben. He talks against his father all day here, I 
see.” 

“ He never mentions his name. Once, when 
I spoke of his father, he was very angry with 
me.” 

“ And who are you ?” he rejoined. 

“A poor girl whom he tried to rescue from 
the streets — his second cousin — very much be- 
low him in the world, who was first afraid of 
him and doubtful of him, but who has learned 
to love him very much for all his kindness. If 
I am ever saved,” she cried, enthusiastically — 
“and Lucy thinks I shall be — it will be Cousin 
Reuben who led me to the light, when there was 
nothing but darkness about my awful life. He 
want time to turn round !” she cried, scornfully. 
“Why, lie’s above all help from mortal man, Sir!” 

“He saved you, and you are his second cousin. 
What’s your name ?” he said, sharply. 

“Sarah Eastbell.” 

“The girl who tried to pass bad money down 
in Worcester?” 

“ Ah ! — yes ! That’s true, Sir, most of it.” 

“But not all of it,” said the thin, hard voice 
of Lucy Jennings, who had come down stairs 
noiselessly; “there was no guilty knowledge. 


02 SECOND-COl 

The money was given her to pass by a scoun- 
drel.” 

“It is the usual story; every one trumps up 
that excuse.” 

“Her story will be believed; it has been al- 
ready believed,” said Lucy. 

“I don’t care whether it is or not. It is no 
business of mine,” replied Simon Culwick. 

“ Yes, it is," said Miss Jennings, flatly contra- 
dicting him, to his indignation and surprise ; ‘ ‘ for 
that child is your sister’s granddaughter, and you 
have the honor of your family to consider. ” 

“Confusion !” exclaimed Mr. Culwick, his face 
darkening as he spoke. “What’s the honor of 
my family to me ? I can’t look after it ; I don’t 
know any thing of my sister’s relations ; to my 
Own sister I haven’t spoken for years. Hasn’t 
my son Reuben told you that ? He seems to have 
kept you well posted up in my affairs.” 

“Your son has not told us much ; his mother, 
who died in this house, was more communica- 
tive. ” 

He started at the mention of his wife’s name. 

“Ay ; I don’t doubt it.” 

The bushy brows were knitted again ominous- 
ly, and there was a suppressed emotion in his 
voice which he found it difficult to disguise, and 
which Lucy Jennings was quick enough to de- 
tect. She did not address him again, but took a 
seat near Sarah Eastbell, and left him to him- 
self. He was a sufficient study for her, without 
breaking in upon his reverie. He was worth 
watching, and thinking about. A word from 
this man could change the whole future of an- 
other man’s life— lift Reuben Culwick from re- 
spectable indigence to riches— set him apart from 
this narrow sphere forever. What had he come 
foi but to clasp his son to that broad chest, and 
offer his forgiveness and forgetfulness for all the 
past wherein they had not agreed? This was 
the teturn visit to Reuben’s at Sedge Hill some 
weeks ago ; the old man was lonely, and remem- 
bered at last that his own flesh and blood had 
stronger claims upon him than the rest of the 
world. And yet she did not like his face ; the 
more she looked at it the less she liked it, and 
him to whom it belonged. It was an apathetic 
and yet miserable face, into which no one would 
look for charity or brotherly love ; there was a 
poverty of expression in it that said very little ; 
and there was an arrogance, or self-conceit, or 
something akin to it, that said too much. 

His head began to move again amidst the 
creases of his thick black stock in his old me- 
chanical fashion, and the eyes were upturned to 
the picture once more. 

“Do you want to sell that thing?” he said to 
Lucy. 

“What thing?” 

“That old painting over the looking-glass.” 
t( Is if worth anything?” asked Lucy, curiously. 

A couple of pounds, perhaps, if it were touched 
up. I would not mind giving a couple of pounds 
for it, as a speculation.” 

“It’s worth considering,” said Lucy. 

Mi. Culwick regarded Miss Jennings with 
more interest. 

“I’ll take it away with me, if you like,” he 
said ; and Lucy Jennings looked hard at him. 

“ My father used to talk of that picture,” said 
Lucy ; “ but when I tried to sell it, there was only 
five shillings offered at Jones’s.” 


SIN SARAH. 

“About its value; but still I don’t mind a 
couple of sovereigns.” 

“ It isn’t mine to sell.” 

“ What — whose picture is it, then ?” 

“ My brother John’s.” 

“ Will he part with it for two pounds ?” 

“ He would part with his soul for two pounds, 
almost,” said Lucy, acrimoniously. 

Mr. Culwick relapsed into silence, and Lucy 
looked at the picture instead of at him, as if 
curious to see where the gentleman had discov- 
ered two pounds’ worth of value in the article. 
Presently he said, “ Where is your brother ?” 

“ Busy,” said Lucy. 

“Can’t he take it down — can’t you get it?” 
he went on, with anxiety. “I’m too heavy to 
stand on these shaky chairs, or I would reach it 
down myself. ” 

The love of the man for pictures seemed affect- 
ing his mind, he woke up to so much interest 
and anxiety concerning John Jennings’s one 
specimen. He had met with a surprise here, 
and it had taken the thoughts of his son out of 
his head, till Lucy recalled him to himself. 

“If you will go up stairs to your son’s room, 
and wait for him, I will bring the picture to 
you,” said Lucy. 

“Doesn’t he live with you? Has he apart- 
ments here ?” 

“To be sure. You did not think that he 
shared our troubles as well as bis own, and made 
our home and our lives part of his ?” 

“I have never thought about it,” was the 
short answer. 

He thought of little save himself, Lucy Jen- 
nings fancied, and she was about to tell him so, 
with that charming outspokenness which was one 
of her most forcible traits of character, when she 
restrained her tongue. 

“ Where’s his room ?” asked Mr. Culwick, aft- 
er this. 

“ The first-floor front ; up those stairs, ”Lucv 
answered. 

Mr. Culwick rose at once, and toiled with dif- 
ficulty up the stairs like a man anxious to be rid 
of objectionable company. He went into his 
son’s room, where the appointments surprised 
him by contrast with the room which he had 
quitted ; where there was evidence of comfort, 
it not of luxury, and where there were many 
shelves of books. He walked to the table, and 
looked down at the letters and papers; he 
walked to the window, and looked out into Hope 
Stieet; he walked to the mantel-piece, and peered, 
in a short-sighted way, at a photograph, from 
which he suddenly bobbed his head back as 
though he had been stung. It was the portrait 
pf his wife, reverently enshrined in a gold frame. 
There was a huge arm-chair in the room, into 
which he cautiously lowered himself, and set his 
hat by his side ; but he rose with the alacrity of 
youth again as Lucy came in with the picture in 
her hand. 

“I am glad you have got it down. Great 
Heaven, what a state it is in !” he said, taking it 
from her hands. “You have rubbed it most in- 
fernally.” 

“I hope it will amuse you till your son re- 
turns,” said Lucy, “and I give him the good 
news that you are waiting for him.” 

Good news ! said the other, in an ironical 
tone, as he stooped over the picture still. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“It will be good new's, surely,” said Lucy; 
“for you have come to this house in a contrite 
spirit.” 

“In a what?” 

In a spirit of peace and good-will — to forgive 
him, and to ask forgiveness in return for your 
own hardness of heart— to forget the past, and 
be friends.” 

Pooh! Nothing of the sort,” said Simon 
Culwick. 


CHAPTER XXY. 

A SERMON. 

The reputed wealth of Simon Culwick, of 
Sedge Hill, Worcester, his position in the coun- 
ty, or his opinion of himself, did not exercise 
1 any restraint upon the peculiarities of the young 
| woman who confronted him, who leaned across 
| the table, and unceremoniously snatched from his 
hands the painting that she had placed between 
them. There was no respect for persons in the 
f mind of Lucy Jennings, especially when her blood 
was up. 

“ What do you mean by nothing of the sort ?” 
she exclaimed ; and at the ominous flashing of 
her eyes Simon Culwick’s lower jaw dropped. 
“ Haven’t you come in all humility and kind- 
ness and Christian charity to this house?” 

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Culwick, making a 
stand for it. 

“ Not to take Reuben back to your home?” 

“No.” 

“ Not to reinstate him ?” 

“No.” 

“ To wound him and his pride afresh, per- 
[ haps ?” 

“That’s very likely.” 

“Sit down, please, while I talk to you,” said 
Lucy, very feverishly ; and at the young woman’s 
j excitement Mr. Culwick glared in mute amaze- 
ment. He subsided into the easy-chair at her 
suggestion, however, and Lucy Jennings laid the 
; picture on the table, took a chair facing him, and 
planted her thin hands on her knees. 

“ Have you ever thought what is to become of 
you, old man, when you are closer to the grave 
than you are now ?” 

“Eh?” said Simon Culwick. 

“ When you are dying, and all your pride and 
wealth are not worth that,” she continued, with a 
i quick snap of her fingers, so close to his face that 
he winced and drew back his head with alacrity. 

“When all the money which you have made 
will not afford you one moment’s comfort,” she 
went on, “and all the dark deeds of your life 
will rise up to appall you.” 

Mr. Culwick turned pale, and breathed hard. 
He w'as not prepared for this onslaught ; he was 
wholly dumfounded. 

“ When you will be alone, awfully alone, with- 
out one good thought of your life for a sinking 
soul like yours to rest a hope upon. Mercy of 
Heaven, man, have you not given one thought to 
all this ?” 

“ You — you wretched woman!” cried Mr. Cul- 
wick, finding breath to reply, and clutching the 
arms of the chair with both hands and shaking 
them in his rage, “how dare you speak to me! 
Do you know that — that I have never been talk- 
ed to in this way in my life — that this is an un- 


warrantable liberty from one in your position to 
one in mine?” 

“I don't care for your position,” cried Lucy 
Jennings; “I w'ouldn’t change mv position for 
yours for twice your money— for fifty times all 
that you have hoarded together, and hardened 
your soul with. What are you but a selfish old 
sinner, who broke his wdfe’s heart, and turned 
an only son out-of-doors, and who must stand 
before his God — ay, sooner than he thinks, per- * 
haps,” she added, with an angry bang upon the 
table that shook the whole house, and took Mr. 
Jennings down stairs with a headlong plunge, 
under the impression that his stock had exploded 
— “to answer for both crimes?” 

“Look here,” shouted Simon Culwick, “I 
have had enough of this.” 

“ You will hear me out,” said Lucy, backing 
against the door with her chair, as he rose from 
his seat. “ You have come of your own free-will 
to this house, where no one is likely to be afraid 
ot you. You are here boasting of your want of 
sympathy and affection, bragging of the possi- 
bility of wounding one afresh whose life you have 
already darkened, and I will tell you what is to 
become of you hereafter.” 

“You are a fanatic. You’re raving mad,” said 
Simon Culwick, dropping into his seat again. 

“My mission has been among much poverty 
and crime, and I have grown old and irritable in 
my efforts to preach and pray to those who hate 
to listen.” 

“ I should think they did.” 

“ But in all my life’s experience,” she contin- 
ued, without heeding him, “I have not met a 
man so full of uncharitableness as you.” 

“You know nothing about me — you — ” 

“ Don’t interrupt me. Listen for a few min- 
utes, and then say what you will.” 

Simon Culwick ground his teeth ; but he did 
not interfere again. She was certainly mad ; and 
it was wise policy, he had heard, to allow mad 
people to have their own way, so far as it was 
consistent with personal safety. He had chanced 
upon a spitfire — a terrible woman who shrieked 
at him terrible things. It was his own fault for 
coming into low neighborhoods, and he must 
bear with it as best he might. He was not a re- 
ligious man; he had not been inside a church 
since his marriage ; he had not a Bible that he 
w r as aware of in his grand house at Sedge Hill ; 
and this down-pour of religion, this facing him 
with hard truths and awful texts and horrid pic- 
tures of his future state, curdled his blood. The 
woman was a nightmare which he could not shake 
away ; there was a terrible eloquence of descrip- 
tion in her too, that commanded attention, cut 
down his pride, and shook his own confidence in 
his great grand self. All this might cling to his 
memory — though he would never own it, for her 
impudence — throughout all his after-years, till 
he came to his grave, concerning which the wom- 
an raved so freely. It was a bitter sermon, with 
no quarter in it, and he shut his eyes, and feign- 
ed to be asleep — a weak attempt at imposition, 
for he shuddered visibly after every sentence. * 

“ There, I have no more to say,” she exclaim- 
ed at last. “ Now think of it, and do your duty, 
as I have done mine, before it is too late.” 

There was a slamming of the door, and he 
opened his eyes to find that his tormentor had 
gone. He rose at once, and took his hat. 


64 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ What a horrible creature!” he muttered. “I 
will not stop another moment.” 

He was half-way toward the door, when the 
picture attracted his attention again, and he 
stopped. It was his ruling passion now ; suc- 
cess in business, present power, future happi- 
ness. were not upon his mind now in any great 
degree. 

He went back to the picture, and knitted his 


place, of his recent sermon, and of the main ob- 
ject of his visit. He was a man possessed by 
one idea. 

There were feet ascending the stairs now, light- 
ly and springily, and he might have remembered 
their echo if he had listened, but he was past list- 
ening. There was a voice he should have recol- 
lected as belonging to old days when he had 
been proud of his son and almost loved him, but 



brows at it, as a man might do intensely puzzled 
with a problem of more than ordinary difficulty ; 
he took it to the window; he placed it on the 
nable, and hid himself in the curtain folds, behind 
the light, to gaze at it ; he put his hat on the 
floor, and sat down with the picture in front of 
him, and began rubbing it carefully with the 
palm of his hand ; finally he thrust his hands into 
his pockets, and stared at it, forgetful of time and 


he did not hear it. It was far bevond his dream- 
world, upon which another “original” had dawn- 
ed. It was only when the handle turned sharp- 
ly and the door opened that he awoke to the 
consciousness of where he was, and what stalwart 
figure had come into the room from the world so 
different to his own. 

“Father,” said Reuben Culwick, as he ad- 
vanced toward hint. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 
CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE OLD IDEA. 


The son went toward his father in the same 
cordial manner which he had adopted in his 
memoi able \Voi cester visit, and offered his hand 
to him. The father half hesitated, as in the old 
fashion, and then shook hands with Reuben 
coldly and limply. It was evident that warmth 
of heart had not brought him to Hope Street ; 
there was no regret for past mistakes— for long 
yeais of disunion— to be detected in the greeting. 

“You have come to see me, then,” said Reu- 
ben, “and I am glad.” 

“ You haven’t much to be glad about at pres- 
ent,” replied the father; “I was in the neigh- 
borhood, and I thought that I would call and 
see where you were lodging, and what you were 
doing. I haven’t come from Worcester express- 
ly to see you.” 

“It does not matter; pray don’t apologize,” 
said Reuben, lightly, as he took his seat at the 
desk, opened it, and glanced carelessly at the 
letters and papers which had arrived during his 
absence. 

“ I’m not apologizing. I never apologized to 
any one in my life. Why should I ?” 

“ Why should you not, if you have done any 
one an injury ?” was the calm rejoinder. 

Reuben placed his papers aside, clasped his 
hands upon his desk, and regarded his father 
steadily. These two men never agreed; they 
seemed to have met even then especially to ag- 
gravate one another, thought Lucy, who "had not 
been able to resist the temptation of taking her 
place on the mat outside the door. She was in- 
terested in the result of the interview. It was 
doubtful if Reuben would ever relate the partic- 
ulars. It was not idle curiosity, but a deep 
concern for the welfare of her lodger, that 
placed her there as listener. Good might fol- 
low her full acquaintance with all the details, 
certainly no harm. 

“ I never did you an injury ; you did all that 
you could to humiliate and defy me,” said the 
father, quickly. 

“It is hardly a clear statement of affairs, fa- 
ther, but I will not contest the argument. I 
called and apologized last May, if you remember.” 

“Humph, it was an apology,” said the fa- 
ther, ironically. 

Reuben did not reply. There was a quick an- 
swer on his tongue, but he repressed it. He 
had no more to say until his father had explained 
the object of his unlooked-for visit. He had no 
wish to irritate him ; on the contrary, he would 
be glad to make peace, and end the unnatural 
difference between them, at any sacrifice except 
that of self-respect. If Simon Culwick had 
come of his own free-will, and in the fullness 
of his heart, he would be happy presently ; but 
the nature of his greeting, the method of his ad- 
dress, warned him that it was not the hither’s 
love for a son that had brought them face to 
face. He had never been loved. The father 
had seen long ago his preference for the mother, 
and hated him for it ; he was almost certain that 
Simon Culwick was without the power of loving 
any being upon earth, Simon Culwick, perhaps, 
excepted. 

The father was not apparently in a hurry to 
state his business. Idle curiosity might have led 

E 


65 

him to the fire-work-maker’s, for he said, after a 
long pause, 

“ This is a very wretched hovel for a man like 
you to exist in. ” 

And his mother to die in, sternly and persist- 
ently refusing to the last to make any claim 
for assistance to her husband, Reuben could 
have added ; but he kept back the retort which 
came uppermost in his mind. 

“ 1 have grown used to it,” was the reply. 

\ ou were brought up like a gentleman — 
you might have been a gentleman now — and yet 
you are in this hole. ” 

“ And still a gentleman, if you will allow me 
to say as much as that,” added Reuben Ctdwick, 
significantly. 

“ You ma y call yourself what you like, but no 
gentleman would dream of living here.” 

“ Some people have odd dreams.” 

“ And as for that beast of a woman down stairs 
—the preaching, canting fury with the hatchet 
face — I’d hang myself sooner than live within 
twenty miles of her!” cried Simon Culwick. 
“ If I had been a heathen, she could not have 
raved at me more.” 

The hatchet face against the outer panel of 
the door burned a little, but did not wince. 

“Miss Jennings is a well-meaning but highly 
inconsiderate woman. What has she been say- 
ing to you ?” 

“What hasn’t she been saying?” exclaimed 
his father. “ I have been insulted — I have been 
treated with the grossest disrespect.” 

“ Has she been pleading in my interest ?” 
“She has been making a fool of herself alto- 
gether.” 

“Has she been pleading in my interest?” he 
asked again. 

“Yes — in her way.” 

“That was a grave mistake. It was officious 
and unwise, and I apologize for her intermed- 
dling,” said Reuben ; “she is a poor woman who 
mows no better, I assure you.” 

Lucy Jennings clasped her hands together, and 
sank her head upon her breast. He had not a 
good word for her even then ! 

“ She is not the only champion you have in 
this house ; there’s that girl Eastbell, too. Who 
on earth would have thought of her being here ?” 

“ She’s one of my clients. But she hasn’t 
said any thing to you ?” 

“ She has said a great deal too much.” 

“Now, bravo, Second -cousin Sarah! What 
did she say, father; what was her style of treat- 
ing the question ?” 

“Ask her; you don’t think I have recollected 
all the cursed nonsense that I have heard in this 
place. ” 

“You can not have forgotten it; yours is an 
excellent memory,” said Reuben, dryly. 

• “ Ay, for many things — for hard words spoken 
against me — for injuries committed, and for fa- 
vors despised, especially.” 

“ You never forgive them.” 

“Why should I?” 

“There is something about forgiving that kind 
of thing in a prayer my mother taught me,”* said 
Reuben, very bitterly now. 

The bitterness of his father’s words had brought 
about his own, and he was a man of no degree 
of caution. He knew that the mention of his 
mother’s name would anger the sullen being from 


G6 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


whom the mother had separated, but he spoke 
out defiantly. 

“ I don’t care about vour mother’s prayers,” 
Simon Cuhvick cried, furiously; “the result of 
what she taught you has been proved by your 
vile disobedience to me.” 

“What she taught me we need not discuss at 
this late hour,” was the son’s reply. “Tell me 
what has brought you here, Mr. Culwick.” 

Simon Culwick hesitated still. It was no easy 
matter to explain the motive which had set him 
down in Hope Street, and the big eyebrows low- 
ered again over the eyes. 

“I have been thinking a great deal about you 
lately,” he said at last. “ You have bothered 
me.” 

“Indeed!” 

“You came to Sedge Hill — you were the first 
to write to me — the first to make advances.” 

“Yes.” 

“And although calling on me only proved that 
you were as obstinate as ever — that we should 
never get on,” he continued — “still I accepted 
it as an apology.” 

“ Or in the spirit in which it was meant,” said 
Reuben ; 1 ‘ say that. ” 

“And it struck me,” he added, without say- 
ing it, “that there was some amount of respect 
for me in your heart, possibly some regret for all 
that has parted us.” 

“Well?” 

“Well,” echoed back the father, “if so, we 
might get on after all. Who knows? I don’t 
say that 1 can ever forgive you — that I am ever 
likely to forget — that I have even an idea of al- 
tering my will ; all that depends upon yourself.” 

“ Well?” said Reuben, deeply interested. 

“ You remember what we quarreled about?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ I wanted you to marry Miss Holland.” 

“Yes.” 

“That is the girl whom you saw at my house 
last Mav.” 

“Yes.” 

“Then,” he said, after a strange fighting with 
his breath, “marry her now, and I’ll forget ev- 
ery thing !” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

VERY SUDDEN. 

Reuben was prepared for many strange rea- 
sons for his father’s presence in Hope Street, but 
this one took him completely off his guard. He 
sat back and glared at his father. 

“ You don’t answer me,” said Simon Cuhvick, 
in his old sullen and aggrieved tone of voice. 

“ Not at a moment’s notice,” was the answer. 
“It is hardly my way. But — ” 

“Go on,” said the father, impatiently, as Reu- 
ben paused. 

“Why do you wish me to marry this lady?” 

“Because I made up my mind that she should 
be your wife five years ago. Didn’t I sav so 
then ? Haven’t I said to myself a hundred 
times, ’ he added, between his closed teeth, “that 
you should do as I wished, or starve?” 

“Pardon me, Mr. Culwick, but I am not obliged 
to starve because your wishes and mine do not as- 
similate,” Reuben replied, with grave politeness. 

“Your mother set you against her, out of ag- 


gravation because she discovered that I wished 
the match — for no other reason, I swear,” said 
the father. “ Now consider this and let me 
know. Take five minutes, while I look at this 
picture again.” 

“Thank you, Sir,” said Reuben, very calmly; 
“ I will take five minutes, as you suggest. I Vs 
a short grace, but I shall have made up my mind 
by that time.” 

The father did not, or would not, perceive the 
irony of the reply, and he bent his face over the 
picture while Reuben sat and regarded him. 
There was no doubt or anxiety on Reuben Cul- 
wick’s countenance as he gazed at his father ; he 
only seemed to have made a study of the big man 
before him, and to be interested in him rather 
than in his own chance of aggrandizement. He 
looked at his watch, in a business sort of way, 
and when the five minutes had expired he said, 

“You have no further reason to urge why I 
should marry Miss Holland ?” 

“It was my wish years ago,” the father said, 
imperiously. 

“ Very well,” answered Reuben, “ then I must 
decline to marry the lady.” 

“You — you fool!” blurted forth the father. 

“ There are many who would be of your opin- 
ion,” said Reuben, coolly; “for you are a rich 
man whose crotchets are worth studying, and 
Miss Holland is a pretty young woman, and ap- 
pears to be amiable. Still, Sir,” leaning across 
the desk again as in the early period of their in- 
terview, “I will not marry her.” 

“ So much the worse for you,” said the father. 

“So much the worse for my worldly advan- 
tages, for my chance of your money,” said Reu- 
ben, shrugging his shoufders ; “yes, I see that, 
and the prospect does not dismay me. I have 
been flung too long upon my own resources to 
be alarmed at it, and it was you, my own father, 
who cast me on the world. ” 

“ For rank disobedience — remember that.” 

“ For believing in my mother, who was a wom- 
an grievously wronged. Will you remember 
that too ?” he said. 

“I will not hear a word about your mother. 
She was — ” 

“And I will not hear a word against her in 
the house where she died,” cried Reuben* so 
sternly now that the father held his peace, cowed, 
perhaps for the first time in his life, by the son’s 
severity of manner. 

“I don’t want your money,” Reuben contin- 
ued. “ I should have been glad once of your 
affection, but I don’t see my way to that any 
more clearly than I liave done. And as for my 
future, I will make it for myself. I have done 
without your help all my life, and, please God, 

I will go on without it to the end.” 

“Go,” said the father. 

“It is the road of my own choosing, and 
I have friends to wish me godspeed,” Reuben 
continued; “I shall be happier following my 
own pursuits than truckling to you for your mon- 
ey’s sake. I never cared for your money, by 
Heaven! I despised it.” 

“You have said that before.” 

“ I can earn my own living.” 

“ So can a carpenter,” said the old man. 

I have no ties ; I have lost one little girl who 
w'as very dear to me, and whom I found more 
desolate than I was ; and my ambitions lie so 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


fai away from yours that they can never possi- 
bly cross.” 

“I am not paying any attention,” Mr. Cul- 
A\ick senior remarked. ‘‘Will 3^0 u marrv Miss 
Holland or not ?” 

“ I have already respectfully declined the offer 
of the lady’s hand.” 

Simon Culwick rose, buttoned up his coat, and 
set his hat firmly on his head. 

“ Good-morning to you.” 

One moment. Is Miss Holland aware of 
your proposition ?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“I am very glad of it.” 

“I don’t see any thing to be glad of,” said 
Mr. Culwick, as he walked toward the door, 
where he paused, and looked at the picture. “ I 
had forgotten that,” he muttered, as he returned 
to the table, and where Reuben was standing the 
instant afterward with the picture in his hand. 

“ You will pardon me, but Mr. Jennings will 
not sell this portrait.” 

“ He has already — ” 

“ Mr. Jennings will not sell it, I assure you,” 
said Reuben, with great urbanity of manner, as 
he bowed once more to his father with the pic- 
ture pressed to his breast. 

The father’s face grew very dark again. 

“It is because you think that the picture 
pleases me that you try to thwart me in a petty 
affair of this kind, even.” said Simon Culwick : 


C 7 


affair of this kind, even,” said Simon Culwick"; 
“you would oppose me at every turn if you 
could ; you would kill me if you dared.” 

“Mr. Jennings will not sell the picture until 
he has taken advice upon it,” said Reuben, with- 
out offering any defense to his father’s reproach. 

“Advice!” 

“It appears to me a murky daub enough, but 
then daubs sell if they’re old,” said Reuben ; “ and 
the desire of an eminent picture collector to add 
it to his gallery engenders a certain amount of 
curiosity respecting it.” 

“ It would cost twenty pounds to restore. 
Where are these fire-work-makers to get twenty 


pounds ?” 

“ I will lend them the sum if it’s necessary.” 


“ You ?’ 

“To be sure. I am of a saving turn, and by 
next post I expect twenty-five pounds that I shall 
not know what to do with.” 

“And you will not let me take that picture 
away; you oppose me in this too?” he said, be- 
tween his set teeth. 

“ It seems to be my mission in life to oppose 
you in every thing,” said Reuben, satirically, 
“and I have been particularly unfortunate this 
morning. I can not take a wife of your selec- 
tion at a moment’s notice, and I can not allow 
you to make a good bargain at the expense of 
my own friends.” 

“I don’t believe you have a friend in the world : 
your miserable temper wouldn’t let you have any. ” 

“ Ah ! I have been of that opinion myself, 
more than once in my life.” 

“It’s my belief that I hate you worse than 
ever I did,” said the father, as he walked down 
stairs, followed by his son with the picture under 
his arm, 

“ I am sorry to hear it,” answered Reuben. 

Mr. Culwick senior descended the stairs with 
extreme care, and passed through the parlor and 
shop without bestowing any further attention 


upon Mr. Jennings or Sarah Eastbell. Stand- 
ing at the shop door was Lucy Jennings, who 
was studying the- houses on the opposite side of 
the wav with great intentness. 

“Will you allow me to pass, madam ?” he said, 
gruffly, to her. 

Miss Jennings stood aside as requested, and 
as he passed her, she said, in a low tone, 

fry to remember how close you may be to 
your grave before you leave this house as wicked 
a man as you entered it.” 

He glared at her defiantly; his fingers even 
closed upon the stick, as if the idea of striking 
her with it had suggested itself ; then he stopped 
and put his face close to hers, eagerlv and con- 
fidentially. ' 

“A ten-pound note for that picture, and I’ll 
take it away with me.” 

“ You will take nothing away with you but 
our contempt,” said Lucy, banging the door be- 
hind him, and shutting him out in the front gar- 
den, down which he proceeded slowly. 

He turned in the direction of the Camberwell 
New Road, but altered his mind, and passed the 
house again, looking up at the window of the 
first floor, and even hesitating, as if the idea of 
re-entering had struck him ; then he went on to 
Walworth Road, where he lost himself, and 
where his irritation broke forth into sundry awful 
oaths when every fresh direction he received 
only bewildered him, and led him into a deeper 
maze of streets. It was very strange, but pres- 
ently he could not attend to the directions which 
were given him ; they made his head ache, and 
rendered him so giddy that once or twice he 
stopped to recover himself before he had the 
strength to proceed. He gave up asking the wav 
to London Bridge after a while, and looked on 
in a purposeless fashion that was new to him, 
until he found himself standing by a lamp-post 
in a crowded thoroughfare, thinking of his son 
and then of his dead wife — which was very 
strange indeed — and then of Mary Holland, down 
in Worcestershire. 

A Hansom-cab drew up in front of him, and the 
driver bent himself from his seat in his direction. 

“Cab, sir?” inquired the man. 

“Yes,” said Simon Culwick. 

He did not marvel at his own folly in not call- 
ing a cab before ; he stepped into it with diffi- 
culty, and would have dropped off to sleep at 
once, had not the driver asked through the trap 
in what direction he should drive. 

“I don’t know,” said Simon Culwick, taking 
off his hat, and putting one big hand to his fore- 
head. 

“ Aren’t you well, Sir?” asked the cabman. 

“I’m very well, thank you; how are you?” 
said Mr. Culwick, absently. 

“Oh, I’m all right. Where to, Sir?” asked 
the cabman. 

‘ ‘ To my boy’s. ” 

“Where does he live?” 

“ I can’t remember. Oh, don’t ask me to 
think!” said Mr. Culwick, piteously, and with 
his thick lower lip quivering. 

“This is a blessed rum start,” muttered the 
cabman. “Can’t you recollect any place where 
I can take you ?” 

“No.” 

“Ain’t, vou got no friends?” 

“No.” ‘ 


08 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“Then hook it out of my cab, old man, and 
ask a perliceman to take care of you. ” 

Mr. Simon Culwick did not move, and the 
cabman was about to expostulate more forcibly 
with him, when he said, 

“Sedge Hill.” 

“Sedge ’111! Where’s that ?” 

“Straight on.” 

“Oh, you mean Ludgate ’111.” 

“As fast as you can go.” 

“All right.” 

The cabman whipped his horse, and drove off. 

“How drunk he is!” said the cabman. 

Mr. Simon Culwick bad not touched wine or 
spirits that day. It was not he who had given 
way, but something at the brain of the man who 
had been so strong and hard only that morning, 
and whose strength and obduracy might have 
been but the slow on-coming of his malady. 

Still he was only a trifle giddy, he thought, 
as he dismissed the cab at the corner of Eleet 
Street, after paying his fare in a rational man- 
ner. His memory was bad, too, and he stood 
for a while against the obelisk in the middle of 
the road, trying to recollect why he had come to 
Ludgate Hill — why he had quarreled again with 
his son Reuben — why he was so long a distance 
trom him when he seemed to need suddenly and 
strangely his protection and affection. 

“Hope Lodge, Camberwell!” 

Yes, he was better. That was the place where 
Reuben lived, and that awful woman-preacher — 
where the picture was — a real Opie, as he was 
a living man ! He would go back to Reuben 
and to the picture at once, while his memory 
was fresh. He was an old man, and terribly 
alone in the world, and the picture was worth 
two or three hundred pounds, and Reuben had 
not promised to marry Mary Holland yet. He 
stepped into the road, and made for the oppo- 
site side of the way. There were wagons and 
omnibuses and carts coming in all directions, 


and their drivers shouted at him, and foot-pas- 
sengers screamed wildly at the danger which he 
had not seen for himself. His giddiness had 
overmastered him again, and he fell amidst clat- 
tering, stumbling iron hoofs, and whirling, grind- 
ing wheels, and it was beyond man’s help to save 
him. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


THE BEARER OP GOOD TIDINGS. 


Mrs. Eastbell waited very patiently for the 
return of her granddaughter to the almshouses. 
Having faith in Sarah, knowing that she was in 
good hands, that she was at Reuben’s landlord’s 
house, and that Reuben was looking after her, 
the old woman bore the absence of her grandl 
child with a brave composure. The old lady 
next door attended to her when her own ailments 
would allow. There were not wanting friendly 
hands and friendly offers from those whom re- 
duced circumstances had rendered brothers and 
sisters in adversity ; and there came also, with 
commendable regularity, the young lady who was 
housekeeper and general custodian to Simon Cul- 
w!ck of Sedge Hill, and whom Reuben Culwick 
had declined to marry at his father’s bidding. 

I'hus the time passed not altogether slowly to 
Mrs. Sarah Eastbell ; she was living in hope. 


There was nothing on her mind now. Good 
people read the Bible to her, and she slept away 
large portions of her existence, which, in a more 
wakeful and less merciful state, might have wea- 
ried her with its monotony of darkness. 

She was very happy in her nest, she said. 
Sarah wrote her letters; Miss Holland read them 
to her ; every body was kind ; and her grand- 
daughter would soon be home again. What was 
there to disturb her old head in any way ? She 
was well in health, too, and wonderfully strong. 
She would have got up every day if Sarah had 
been at home, “just to cheer the girl up a bit;” 
but she would try to nurse her strength till all was 
as it had been before Sarah went away. 

Suddenly the visits of Mary Holland abruptly 
ceased, although a message was sent to the old 
lady that Mrs. Muggeridge’s niece had been tel- 
egraphed for to London, and would return in a 
few days. The niece would take that opportu- 
nity of calling upon Sarah Eastbell, and bringing 
back to Worcester all the news, possibly Miss 
Eastbell herself, if she was strong enough to 
leave, the message added. And then there fol- 
lowed somewhat more of a blank to the exist- 
ence of the old lady, who took the change of af- 
fairs with her usual philosophy, and put her own 
cheery construction upon it. 

How long Mary Holland was away Mrs. East- 
bell did not know, one day being very much like 
another, and time passing away smoothly and 
easily with this complacent specimen of age. 
The weather seemed to grow more hot, and the 
flies to aggravate her a trifle more— that was all ; 
and then one afternoon when the kettle was sing- 
ing on the handful of fire which Mrs. Muggeridge 
had made, Mary Holland came softly into the 
room, and stood by the bedside of the old woman. 

“ I have returned,” she said ; and the eyelash- 
es of the listener quivered at the voice. 

“ Thank you, child,” was the answer, as the 
thin yellow hand crept from beneath the sheets 
to welcome her. “ Have you brought Sarah 
with you ? It seems a long while now since she 
was at St. Oswald's. ” 

“She will be in Worcester to-morrow.” 

“Now that’s good hearing!” and the rapid 
movements of the pupils beneath the lids testified 
to so much excitement that the young woman 
watching her hesitated for a while, as though her 
next communications were of some moment, and 
had better be delayed. 

“Well,” said the sharp voice at last, “is that 
all you have to tell me ?” 

“ Oh no ; I have brought a great deal of news 
with me— good and bad.” 

{{ ‘‘Never mind about the bad,” was the reply. 

Let me have the good news to begin with ; it 
will agree with me best.” 

“I am afraid that you must have them both 
together. 

“Why afraid ?” 

“ Because they both affect you, Mrs. Eastbell ” ! 

°R 0n ; 5 !K l i S have them in the lu mp, 

then. But she added, quickly, “ is it anv thing 
to do with Sarah ?” ' 

“It concerns yourself most of all.” 

. 4 Indeed,” and the eyebrows arched themselves 

in a peculiar way, which her nephew Reuben had 
already notmed: “then I shall bear good news 
and bad news wonderfully well. You'll not sur- 
prise me m the least.” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


44 Yes, I shall,” was the answer. 

Mary Holland sat down bv the bedside, and 
rested her arm on the hand of Mrs. Eastbell, 
still lying outside the coverlet. 

“Can you feel what trimming is on my sleeve ?” 
she asked. 

\ es, said Mrs. Eastbell 5 44 crape! You 
have lost some one.” 

44 1 have lost one who was kinder to me than 
to any living soul. ” 

“ Ele has left you comfortably off, I hope.” 

44 1 shall be no richer for his death.” 

He hadn t any thing to leave, perhaps. Some 
! people haven’t, and what a deal of bother it 
saves !” 

44 1 never expected any thing. It was on the 
condition that I should never touch a half-penny 
of his money that I became the keeper of his 
house, the watcher of his lonely life. His fath- 
er and mine had been great friends, but they had 
quarreled at last, as every body quarreled with 
this man.” 

“With what man?” 

44 1 am coming to it by degrees,” she answered. 
44 1 haven’t told you yet that you knew my patron 
very well at one time.” 

“Aren’t you, then—” began Mrs. Eastbell. 

“The niece of the old lady next door? No. 
I deceived you, for fear that the news of my vis- 
its should reach my patron’s ears, and for other 
reasons which I will tell you at a more fitting 
opportunity. Will you try and guess now,” she 
said, very gently, 44 who this man was, and what 
relationship he bore to you, and guessing it, keep 
strong?” 

Mrs. Eastbell thought of this, and then said, 
very calmly, 

44 You must mean my brother Simon?” 

44 Yes,” was the reply. 

44 Is he really dead ?” she ashed, in a whisper. 

44 Yes ; he was run over in the streets, and he 
died in the hospital next day.” 

44 Poor Simon ! I fancied that I should outlive 
him, old as 1 was, though I didn’t think he would 
go off in a hurry like this. I have been waiting 
years for him, making sure that he would come 
here some day, and say, 4 Sister, I’m sorry that 
we ever had any words, and there’s an €nd of it;’ 
and instead of this, there's an end of him ! Well, 
he was a good man, with a will of his own, like 
the rest of the family. Tell me about the acci- 
dent.” 

Mrs. Eastbell had certainly received bad news 
with composure, as age will do very often, but still 
Mary Holland was astonished at her equanimity. 

44 You are not shocked?” she asked, wonder- 
ingly. 

44 1 am too near the end myself, child, to be sur- 
prised at Simon’s starting before me — the right 
way, too, for he was an honest, straightforward 
fellow, wasn’t he ?” 

44 Yes.” 

“He rose from a mill-boy, at three-and-six- 
pence a week. I was always uncommonly proud 
of Simon’s getting on in the world. So industri- 
ous, so very sharp, so long-headed. He died in 
London ?” 

“Yes.” 

44 Why couldn't he have remained in Worces- 
ter?” 

“He wished to see his son.” 

“Now I'm glad of that! That’s the good 


news you have been hinting at ! I’m very glad,” 
said the old lady, her face beaming with delight, 
. for that showed the right spirit, and the heart 
in the right place. That’s what I always said 
about Simon from the first. And so father and 
son made it up at last ?” 

I hardly know — but I think that they quar- 
reled again.” 

“Well, they did not quarrel for long; it was 
soon over. How does Reuben bear his loss ?” 

4 4 Strangely. ” 

44 What do you mean by strangely?” 

I s a stran g e man, if you remember.” 

“ He is a very good young man, Mary.” 

“ I am glad to hear you sav so.” 

And as tor being strange, we Culwicks are 
all strange in our ways.” 

44 Yes, I believe that,” murmured Mary Hol- 
land. 

“Reuben comes back to his lights at last, and 
all’s well.” 

“ All is not well with Reuben Culwick, so far 
as his rights are concerned. His father has cut 
him out of his will, as he said that he would,” 
Mary explained still further, “and as I knew 
that he would.” 

4 'Then who has got the money?” 

The young woman’s hand touched the dry and 
withered one lying close to her own. 

“ You have,” said Mary Holland, after a mo- 
ment’s silence. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

BEGINNING HER NEW LIFE. 

This time the self-possession of Mrs. Sarah 
Eastbell was not strikingly apparent. The news 
came as a shock, and acted like a shock — power- 
ful and galvanic — to the wasted frame that had 
lain there supinely for so long a time, and had 
not wearied of its life. Sarah Eastbell sat bolt- 
upright in bed, to the amazement of her com- 
panion, turned her sightless face toward the bear- 
er of the news, and went up two octaves, or there- 
abouts, in her tone of voice, and after her usual 
fashion when excited. There are many good souls 
who will bear more complacently with a friend's 
death than his money, and the ring of a sover- 
eign stirs a dry heart at times to its last beat. 
Mrs. Eastbell wa 6 a philosopher in her way, a 
patient old woman, who had borne bad luck 
and much affliction with exemplary patience, 
but good fortune was too much for her. 

44 What’s that you say? — who’s got the mon- 
ey ? — me?" she screamed forth. 

“Yes, you are the heiress,” said Mary Hol- 
land, somewhat satirically. 

44 Stop a bit — don’t go on all at once. I’m old 
and weak, and must be treated like a child,” cried 
Sarah Eastbell. 44 Do you mean to say that my 
brother Simon has left me all his money?” 

44 Every shilling in money and estate of which 
he died possessed you -have a right to claim.” 

Mrs. Eastbell Avent back to her recumbent po- 
sition suddenly and heavily, as a figure cut out 
of wood might have done. 

44 Make me a cup of the strongest tea that you 
can, while I collect myself a bit,” she said. 

She had turned of so waxen a hue that Mary 
was alarmed for the result of her good news, un- 
til the breathing became less heavy and disturb- 


70 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


ed. The shock was over, the worst and the best 
were known, and Sarah Eastbell was resigned to 
be rich. 

When, with her pillow propped behind her 
head, she was sitting up again, sipping her tea, 
she had become very cool and self-possessed. 

“How much money is there?” she asked, so 
keenly that Mary almost fancied that the old 
woman was peering at her from under her sealed 
lids. 


“Yes, that it will.” 

“It has only made my head ache at present. 
Give me another cup of tea, Mary. ” 

Mary gave Mrs. Eastbell a second cup of tea, 
which she sipped off slowly, her blind face turned 
toward the door, and a strange expression in it. 

“What are you thinking about?” asked Mary. 

“ I am thinking too much, and the money 
brings trouble already,” said the old woman, 
fretfully. “I don’t know, after all, if it will be 



“ More than you will know what to do with.” 

“Not more than I can take care of,” she add- 
ed, with one of her low chuckles of satisfaction. 

“ For yourself, and for those who come after 
you,” said Mary, in a low, thoughtful tone. 

“ Yes ; but I must enjoy myself first. I haven’t 
had much pleasure in my life, stuck here like a 
Guv Fawkes, goodness knows!” 

“No.” 

“Why, it will take time to understand what 
being rich is like.” 


of any use. I’m blind — I shall never see pros- 
perity!” 

“ You may bring prosperity to others.” 

.“I am not going to think of other people yet ” 
said Sarah Eastbell, sharply; “ there will be time 
enough for that when I have learned to forget this 
wretched almshouse where I might have died.” 

Mary regarded her very attentively. Had a 
change come to her already with the prospect of 
the brother’s money ? 

“ But you must think a little of the future,” said 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


Mary, as the old lady gave up her cup, and lay 
down again. 

“I shan t be able to sleep for thinking of it. 
That s the worst of it, ’ she said, with a spiteful 
little punch to her pillow, “and if I don’t sleep, 
I’m awfully bad next day. You should have come 
early with the news, not in the middle of the 
night.” 

“ It’s only five o’clock in the afternoon.” 

“ But I get to sleep by six when Sally’s here. 
When shall I see Sally, did you say ?” 

“She will be in Worcester by an early train 
to-morrow,” was the reply, “and go at once to 
Sedge Hill.” 

“ What ! Simon’s big house ?” 

“ Yes, where we hope to get you soon. There 
is nothing settled, but those to whom the money 
is left have a right to take possession.” 

“Certainly, or I shall lose half the things in 
the place, with a parcel of servants about,” said 
Mrs. Eastbell ; and to the further surprise of her 
visitor she slid feebly but quickly out of bed, and 
stood up, ghost-like, in her night-dress. 

“What do you think of doing?” cried Mary 
Holland. 

“ I shall take possession to-night,” said the old 
lady. “ I must get to Sedge Hill ; I shall be able 
to welcome my granddaughter to her new home 
then. I’m strong enough, if somebody will only 
dress me, and send for a conveyance. Why 
should I stop? Haven’t I had enough of this 
prison and this poverty ? For' the Lord’s sake, let 
me get away ! I can’t live here any longer. ” 

Mary Holland thought that it would have been 
wiser to have brought her news at an earlier hour 
then. She endeavored to persuade Mrs. Eastbell 
to rest till the next day, but the old lady was ob- 
stinate, and not to be turned from her intentions. 

“ You are going to Sedge Hill to-night, I sup- 
pose?” asked Mrs. Eastbell. 

“Yes.” 

“Then I’ll go with you, and you shall take 
care of me till Sally comes. I’ll make it worth 
your while.” 

“ I shall not require any remuneration, thank 
you,” said Miss Holland, quietly, as she assisted 
Mrs. Eastbell to dress, and received directions 
where to find the various articles of attire, the 
old lady having a wonderful memory of her own. 

“There! I haven’t been up since last May,” 
said Mrs. Eastbell, triumphantly, as she tied her 
bonnet strings with vigorous jerks, “and I feel 
much the better for it. Ah ! there’s nothing like 
good luck to pull one together. Give me some 
more tea, and then run and fetch me a convey- 
ance.” 

Mary Holland gave her the tea as requested, 
but, although she went from the room, she did 
not proceed in search of a conveyance to Sedge 
Hill, but intrusted that commission to the old 
lady next door, who was extra agile that after- 
noon, like Mrs. Eastbell, and anxious to be of 
service. Presently Mary Holland returned to 
watch her companion, and to wonder if the old 
woman’s strength would last to Sedge Hill, or if 
the reaction would come and leave her prostrate. 
She was not prepared for this sudden awakening 


to a new life ; it bewildered her, shrewd little 
woman though she was in many things, bhe 
had wished to break the news to Mrs. Eastbell, 
and the task had been intrusted to her accord- 
ingly ; but had it been done wisely, and was this 
a wise step on the part of Mrs. Eastbell to leave 
St. Oswald’s in ungrateful haste? 

“ a time the cab is!” said Sarah East- 
bell, suddenly. 

“ In your happier state apart from this life 
you will not forget the man whose place you 
take, whose name is yours, whose father set him 
aside without fair cause,” urged Mary. 

I his isn t a time to worry 'me about him.” 

“ Life is uncertain ahvays — -‘we have had a 
terrible instance of it — and I w ish to talk to you 
ot Reuben Culwick, your nephew, whom you 
have always liked,” she went on, anxiously. 

“ I have no fault to find with Reuben— he’s 
an excellent young man— but that’s no reason 
why I should talk about him to-night.” 

“He is poor.” 

“ I dare say he is,” was the reply; “but I 
must think of my own family first. * I can’t be 
bothered with nephews just now.” 

Mrs. Muggeridge’s head peered round the 
door. 

“ The cab’s come,” she said. “ Do you think 
you can walk to the outer gate, Mrs. East- 
bell ?” 

“ I could walk a mile.” 

“ Good Lor! — I’m glad to hear that, and I’m 
glad to see you as biisk as a bee again,” said 
Mrs. Muggeridge ; “it looks like old days, when 
you first came here.” 

“ I hate old days.” 

“ Sometimes they’re pleasant to look back 
on,” observed Mrs. Muggeridge; “and some- 
times they ain’t. And now you’ve come into a 
fortune — ” 

“ Who told you that?” 

“ Bless you, it’s all over the town ; only we’ve 
been warned not to say any thing until Miss 
Holland came from London, lest it should be too 
much for you to bear.” 

“ I thought every body was mighty kind and 
civil,” said Mrs. Eastbell, as she took Mary’s 
arm and moved toward the door. 

“Bless you, Sarah,” said Mrs. Muggeridge, 
“ you'll not forget us; you’ll help all those who 
have helped you, I know. You were always 
grateful.” 

“ Mrs. Muggeridge,” replied Mrs. Eastbell, 
gravely, “I shall never be ungrateful. You 
have been kind for one.” 

“ Ay, I have,” assented the old lady. 

“ There’s a tea-pot of mine on the hob, and it 
draws beautifully. Take it, tea and all, and 
don’t forget me. Good-by. How very glad I 
am to get away from here. This way ?” 

“Yes, this way, ” said Mary. 

“ The night's cold, and though I am not used 
to night air, I can go through it to my new 
house and my new life as briskly as you can. 
What a change for me and Sally!” 

“And for more than you two,” added Mary 
Holland. 


72 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


BOOK THE SECOND.— TWO YEARS AFTERWARD. 


CHAPTER I. 

A SUNDAY SERVICE. 

Two years after the events recorded in our 
last book there was a Sunday service of a pecul- 
iar character held under a railway arch in one 
of the darkest streets of a dark neighborhood 
lying between the Lower Marsh and York Road, 
Lambeth. The place of worship, the worshipers, 
and the one who. preached and prayed were all 
strange together ; and there was much for skin- 
deep piety to protest against, and for irreverence 
to scoff and jeer at. It was only the downright 
earnestness of these fugitive atoms scraped to- 
gether here that put forth its claims to the re- 
spect of those who had time to think of the odd 
forms in which religion may assert itself. Among 
the myriads who turn their backs on church or 
chapel orthodox, there are still a few with cour- 
age to seek God in some fashion. 

Of the tenets of this community it is not our 
purpose or right to inquire too closely in these 
pages. The preaching was simple, the earnest- 
ness was manifest; the one text seemed forgive- 
ness to sinners, and the one appeal was for their 
repentance before the hour was too late. That 
which was most remarkable in the service was the 
tact of its being conducted by a woman — a sal- 
low, hollow-eyed female— with a touch of fanat- 
icism in her extravagant gestures and her high- 
pitched voice and in the sermon which she 
preached to ragged and unkempt men, women, 
and children, three-fourths of whom were full of 
a grave, deep interest, and the remaining frac- 
tion very noisy, and watching its opportunity to 
turn a portion of the discourse into ridicule. 

These discontents were huddled together near 
the door— a grinning, coughing, and grimacing 
mob — while over their heads peered occasionally 
a policeman’s helmet, a sign of peace and order 
that was followed by much horse-play and iron- 
ical comment on the proceedings after it disap- 
peared. 

The preacher was undismayed. She had grown 
accustomed to interruptions months ago; and 
she addressed herself with the same earnestness 
to those who scoffed at her as to those who 
seemed affected by her words. There was that 
“rough-and-ready” eloquence in her discourse 
that commanded a certain amount of attention 
at times even from the noisiest, and her homelv 
words, her illiterate phrasing, her little slips of 
syntax even, helped rather than deteriorated 
from the impression which she made. She was 
one of the people— one of the poor— and the poor 
understood her, and a few had already pinned 
their faith to her, and called themselves the Jen- 
ningsites, after the name which she bore. 

• When the opposition grew too strong, laughed 
too loudly, crowed too repeatedly in the aggra- 
vated bantam-cock fashion — which generally oc- 
curred when the policeman was too long away — 
one or two burly members of the congregation 
would solemnly take their corduroy jackets off 
and walk toward the door, whereat a tremendous 
scuffling would take place, and a few of the dis- 
putants be pitched into the street, which became 
the scene of hand-to-hand encounters until the 


helmet floated uppermost again, and all was har- 
mony. 

It had been a noisy night at Jennings’s railway 
arch, where we resume our story ; the preacher 
had been more than usually powerful, and the 
opposition more than commonly opposed to her, 
but the service had reached its conclusion, those 
who belonged to the new sect had sung their 
hardest in a final hymn, and drowned the voices 
of the discontented, and now there was hand- 
shaking with the preacher, and many loud good- 
by’s, like a friendly party breaking up and part- 
ing with the hostess. 

Erom the background of the congregation 
there stepped suddenly a tall well-dressed young 
woman with her veil down, and room was made 
for her into the inner circle of rags and tatters 
by which Lucy Jennings was surrounded, while 
many and curious faces peered closely at the new- 
comer. 

“ May I speak to you for a few moments in 
private ?” asked the stranger, in a low voice. 

‘ ‘ This is not a time for matters of a private 
nature,” was the answer. “If your business is 
to seek religious counsel or religious comfort, no 
secrecy is necessary. You will find here manv 
friends. ” 

“ I do not seek religious counsel, but — ” 

“Then this is not the time and place to ad- 
dress me,” said Lucy Jennings, with severity. 

“ This is the first opportunity that I have had 
of speaking to you for two years.” 

“You will please seek another.” 

“Not when you recollect me, Lucy,” said the 
young lady, raising her veil. £ * I am Sarah East- 
bell — don’t you know me ?” 

This was added in a low breath of astonish- 
ment, as Lucy Jennings surveyed our heroine 
with the same inflexible calmness which had 
characterized her first address. Sarah Eastbell 
had certainly changed in two years— for the bet- 
ter, too, being a tall, healthy, handsome young 
woman now ; but she had not altered out’ of all 
knowledge of her friends and acquaintances. 
There was the same steady outlook from the 
dark eyes ; there was something of the same sad- 
ness or depth of thought expressed upon her 
face, though the pallor had passed away ; and 
there were faint rose-tinges on the cheeks which 
Lucy Jennings had seenlast wasted with a fever 
from which she had helped to save her. 

“I know you by your voice,” said Miss Jen- 
nings, stolidly ; “and I have a memory that does 
not fail me.” 

‘ ‘ Then you are offended with me, ” said Sarah. 

‘ You think, perhaps — ” 

I am above taking offense with any living 
soul, or attributing to any human being motives 
for actions which have not been explained,” said 
Lucy Jennings; “ but I can not, on the Lord’s 
Day I will not, under any circumstances — de- 
vote myself to any thing but His service.” 

She crossed her thin hands upon the bosom of 
her dress, and looked up at the stained roof of 
the railway arch, over which a heavy South- 
western train was rumbling at that moment. 

“ I will call on you to-morrow if vou will give 
me your address,” said Sarah Eastbell. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


Eucy Jennings hesitated before she answered, 
as if an insuperable objection to renew their ac- 
I quaintance asserted itself too strongly to be re- 
sisted ; then she said, 

‘‘I shall be in Hope Street to-morrow morn- 
ing at eleven. I will wait tor you there.” 

Lucy Jennings moved her head slightlv, and 
Sarah Eastbell left her surrounded by her con- 
verts. 

As Sarah went out of the place one of the un- 
converted picked her pocket of a cambric hand- 
kerchief, and was disappointed at not finding her 
purse, which she had left at home. 

Sarah Eastbell was disturbed greatly by this 
meeting with Lucy Jennings. Her reception 
had not been what she had anticipated ; there 
had been a coldness, almost a repulse, in lieu of 
that welcome which she had expected at her 
hands. Certainly there had been much to ex- 
plain, but Lucy Jennings would not listen to an 
explanation, and was harder, colder, and more 
eccentric than ever. 

Still the young lady from Sedge Hill, Worces- 
ter, was of a nature not to be easily daunted, 
and she had come to London in hot haste, and 
only attended by her maid, on a mission of im- 
portance. 

The next day at eleven she was in Hope Street, 
where she had been the day before making in- 
quiries, and finding out the new vocation of Miss 
Jennings after a great deal of trouble and perse- 
verance. 

Hope Street had changed more than herself 
in the two years since she had quitted the place. 
The Saxe-Gotha Gardens were no more, and 
two rows of small brick houses formed a street 
on their site. There were railway arches cross- 
ing the road, and in the place of the house of 
Jennings, Fire-work-maker to the Court, was a 
black heap of ruins, shored up by beams, and 
fenced round by a boarding, to which the adver- 
tisements of the day were clinging in profusion, 
party-colored barnacles to the wreck of a house- 
hold. 

It was before this ruin that Sarah Eastbell, 
quietly dressed, waited for the woman who had 
once made it so like home that she had wept in' 
going away from it to the affluence of which she 
had never dreamed. Here she had stood yester- 
day gazing through her tears at the charred and 
blackened house front ; here she had heard of 
the last explosion, and of nobody being hurt 
I much but Mr. Jennings, who had lost something 
or other, but it was difficult to remember what 
had been blown off him last. She had asked 
concerning the lodgers also. The Jenningses 
had had no lodgers. There was a broker’s man 
in possession, and he had come out through the 
shop-window, whole and sound, but confused in 
his ideas a little. It had happened twenty months 
ago ; the house was uninsured, and the landlord 
had not yet raised sufficient funds to re-erect the 
edifice : and that was all the news which Sarah 
Eastbell could rake together, try as hard as she 
might. 

Presently, on that Monday, she should know 
all, for Lucy Jennings would be more communi- 
cative with her religion off her mind. In her 
impatience Sarah Eastbell had reached Hope 
Street a quarter of an hour before time, attract- 
ing a wonderful amount of attention from sundry 
doors and windows, whence curious folk took 


73 

stock of her, and the women appraised the value 
of her wardrobe. 

At eleven to the minute Lucy Jennings, in the 
rustiest of black, and with black cotton gloves 
three sizes too large for her, came along the 
street, striding like a man. In the sunshine she 
was sallower and older than ever, and there was 
a mass of gray hair pushed carelessly under her 
bonnet, telling of the ravages of care rather than 
of time. It was with the same inflexible cast of 
countenance which had daunted Sarah Eastbell 
last night that she advanced, and the out- 
stretched hand of the younger woman was taken 
almost with reluctance, and afterward dropped 
coldly. 

“I hope you will not detain me very long, 
Miss Eastbell, said Lucy, “as I have a great 
many calls to make this morning.” 

“I will be as brief as I can,” said Sarah; 
“but I have not seen you for two years, and I 
have to explain why.” 

“Is it necessary ?” 

“ Yes — I think so. I have manv questions to 
ask, much to tell you, if— if you’ll listen, please,” 
she said, humbly. 

“ We will walk Myatt’s Fields way,” said Miss 
Jennings. “And now, to save time — for time 
is valuable to me — what is vour first question ?” 

There was no restraint in the reply, though 
there was a deepening of color in the cheeks, as 
Sarah Eastbell said, eagerly, 

“ What has become of Reuben Culwick?” 


CHAPTER II. 

UNYIELDING. 

Lucy Jennings did not respond at once to the 
eager question of her companion. She looked 
sternly ahead of her, and her thin lips closed to- 
gether tightly, as though the inquiry had struck 
home. 

When they were crossing the Camberwell New 
Road, toward Myatt’s Fields, she said, 

“Is that the first question, next your heart, 
then ?” 

“Yes, ” was the frank answer : ‘ ‘ why shouldn’t 
it be ?” 

“ Why should it?” was the rejoinder. 

“Because he was good to me when I was 
poor — because he saved me when I had not pow- 
er to help myself.” 

“ Did he ? I thought I took my share in that 
salvation,” she said, with a flash of her old jeal- 
ousy apparent — “if it is salvation. But you 
have forgotten.” 

“No, Lucy,” said the girl, very impetuously, 
“ I have not forgotten any thing, and my old 
life is as close to me as ever, for all the changes 
of two years. You should know that — you have 
had many letters, although you have not answer- 
ed one.” 

“What was the use of answering your letters, 
when I wished to set aside the past, and all that 
belonged to it — to shake off’ the world,” she add- 
ed, impetuously, “ and proceed upon my Master’s 
business, which I had neglected too long? I was 
called to a good work, and I could not think of 
your prosperity, and of your exultation over it ; 
I had higher duties to perform.” 

She raised her right hand and shook it in the 


74 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


air, and Sarah regarded her with grave attention, 
at which she took offense. 

“You believe me mad,” she said, severely, 
“because in this money-grasping age it is so 
strange and mad-like a proceeding to think of 
Heaven’s wealth only. He told me I was in- 
sane long ago.” 

“My cousin Reuben ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You have seen him ? — you will let me know 
where he is ?” 

“ I don’t think that I shall,” said Lucy, grave- 
ly, considering the matter, and looking on the 
ground. ‘ ‘ When we were friends it was his wish 
that you should not know — that your grand- 
mother should not know — what had become of 
him.” 

“When you were friends! You have quar- 
reled, then ?” 

“ It takes two to make a quarrel,” said Lucy 
Jennings; “but there was a bitter parting be- 
tween us, and I never care to see him again.” 

“I am sorry to hear this.” 

“I pray that I may never see him!” added 
Lucy, with increasing fervor. 

“Why did you quarrel? What has made 
you hate him ?” were Sarah’s next two questions. 

“I never said that I hated him,” said Lucy, 
sullenly. “Thank God, I am above the sin of 
hating my fellow-creatures. I would save them 
all from the error of their ways if it lay in my 
power, but with Reuben Culwick I am powerless. 
He scoff's at me — he hates me — and I have done 
with him.” 

“ Why does he keep away from us ? Has the 
loss of his father’s money set him against those 
who wish to help him ?” 

“ Perhaps it has.” 

“ Has he altered very much ?” 

“ Very much.” 

“He was so good-hearted, so good-tempered, 
so affectionate a man.” 

“He tried hard to be — and failed. When 
misfortune came — and it came heavily to him, 
and in more shapes than one — he gave up, as 
cowards do.” 

“I’ll not believe it,” cried Sarah Eastbell, in- 
dignantly ; “he was never a coward ; there was 
nothing in his nature to make him one. He was 
the bravest and the best of men !” 

“ In your idea of what is best and bravest, 
possibly,” replied Miss Jennings; “ but that 
man is a coward who turns his face from Heaven 
because trouble has come to him — who grows 
rebellious, discontented, angry — who will not ac- 
cept trial as his due — who goes from bad to 
worse in sheer defiance — who believes in him- 
self and his own miserable errors.” 

“But you must not think, Lucy, because he 
will not listen to your doctrine, that he is altered 
for the worse. If he never was a religious man 
— I don't know, I can’t say, whether he was or 
not — still he was always kind and true.” 

“He was always a proud man,” said Lucy, 

“ always a scoffer.” 

“You will tell me where he is?” 

“ Are you going to assist him ?” 

“If — if he wants assistance, certainly.” 

“ With his father’s money ?” 

“With any thing, and with my whole heart.” 

“ He is very poor ; he is in deep distress.” 

“ Oh !” cried Sarah Eastbell. 


“And I have not a right to keep help from 
him, though he will turn away from it. You 
represent one of the robbers of his birthright ; 
have you forgotten that ?” 

“ Tell me where he is,” said Sarah, impatient- 
ly. “He is in distress, and you keep me talk- 
ing here. If you have parted from him, still 
you know of his misfortunes ! How is that ?” 

“Why should I explain to you?” said Lucy, 
teclnly. “ You belong to the old set, from which 
I am apart.” 

“Entirely?” 

“ I am utterly alone.” 

“Your brother John, he — ” 

“He is afraid of me. The poor wretch ran 
away from me long ago.” 

“But, Lucy, does your new religion teach you 
to hide from your best friends ?” said Sarah East- 
bell, wonderingly. 

The woman, who had grown devout, and ter- 
ribly stern in her devoutness, looked hard into 
her companion’s face. 

“ Are you one of my best friends, then ?” 

“I will be, if you will only let me, in return 
for the time when you were very good to me. ” 

“Ah, you are only a child still. Your head 
is bewildered by prosperity ; you Avould play the 
lady patron to me now that you have money to 
spend and wear fine dresses. You do not know, ” 
she added, with a sad conceit, “how immeasura- 
bly I am above you.” 

“Yes, I do,” said Sarah, as strangely humble 
as the other was strangely vain ; “I can’t be as 
pious as you are. I try, and fail. My temper 
is bad ; I am jealous and hasty ; lama terrible 
young woman when any thing crosses me. I am 
the mistress of Sedge Hill, not my grandmother, 
and there is no one to tell me what to do.” 

“ Do good !” 

‘ ‘ I am trying. I wish to be of service to you 
and to Reuben Culwick and to your brother 
John, the three associated with my happy days 
in Hope Street.” 

‘ ‘ Happy days ! ” said Lucy, mockingly. “And 
you look back at them cheerfully, of course, from 
the grand house which belongs, *bv right, to Reu- 
ben Culwick.” 

“ Which I wish that I could give him !” 

“ Is that true?” 

“Yes,” answered Sarah, returning the steady 
gaze into her eyes, “ as I hope to live.” 

“There’s a deal of gratitude left still, Sarah 
Eastbell. Riches have not spoiled you vet, as 
they may presently. I wish now,” she added, 

“ that you came to my Sunday services!” 

Sarah Eastbell thought of the damp dark rail- 
way arch, the sunken-eyed, hollow-cheeked crowd 
which this woman had harangued, and the shriek- 
ing mob of scoffers at the doors, and strove to 
repress a. shudder, but in vain. She had acted 
in a politic fashion, and had skillfully contrived, 
like an artful young woman as she was, to fame 
down some of the asperities of Miss Jennings’s 
deportment, waiting to all outward seeming with 
great patience for her second cousin’s address, 
which was the main object of her unceremonious 
visit to London, as we shall discover presently. 
She had conciliated the hard nature of Lucy 
Jennings even, until that little shiver of her whole 
frame became evidence against her. 

“Ah, you can not bear the idea of that !” cried 
Lucy, passionately. “You are above my poor 


?n 1 ° d f 6 T Sh0w their ra S s and sores 
m church for the shame that would follow the 

Yoa are above them. You have been 
tenderiy brought up. and can not understand us 

nothin °f me f nch youn S l»dy, and know 

streets r° f ° Ur l0Wer Hves in the dark back 

l n VaS n a s J athin S satire , tb at poor Sarah East- 
bell hardly deserved, and which she shrank un- 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


7o 


after her. There might have been a difficulty in 
overtaking her had Lucy not stopped suddenly. 

“ You— you have not told me where Reuben 
Culwick lives,” Sarah gasped forth as she came 
up with her. 

“And I never will !” 

“Never!” exclaimed Sqrah Eastbell, in dis- 


may, 


“ You can do no good— you are a foolish child 



“his short pipe dropped from his mouth at the sight of her.” 


der. Lucy Jennings had been always a tenacious 
and suspicious woman, and very prone to take 
offense. Even her “call” had not changed her 
idiosyncrasies or improved her temper. She was 
a well-meaning young woman, inexorably sour, 
occasionally unfair, even when she plumed her- 
self upon her justice. 

She strode away from Sarah Eastbell, leaving 
her motionless for a while, till Sarah recollected 
that the meeting had been all in vain, and ran 


who will only make him worse,” she said, turn- 
ing away again. 

“It is you, then, who would keep him poor. 
It is you who hate him, Lucy Jennings,” cried 
Sarah, indignant at last. 

Lucy hurried on without paying heed to Sarah 
Eastbell’s reproaches. She was very white, but 
very firm. The interview had disturbed her; 
the old world, even yet, was not to be regarded 
with the stoicism of a pure soul apart from it : 



SECOND-COUSIN SARAII. 


76 • 

but no good could arise from this weak young 
woman’s meeting with Reuben Culwick, she was 
sure. Still — Then, at the bend of the road, she 
came to a full stop, as if something had shaken 
her sternness of resolution at last. 

“Better as it is!” she muttered. “He said 
that he would never see her in his poverty.” 

She strode on again, talking to herself most 
volubly. 

“/ hate him!” she repeated more than once, 
as Sarah Eastbell’s words began to rankle ; “that 
chit of a girl to say that! How dare she!” she 
added, stamping her foot upon the pathway. 

It was at this juncture that a white-faced man, 
perfectly destitute of eyebrows and eyelashes, 
and seedily attired, turned the corner of the 
hedge-rows that were still green and luxuriant 
there, and faced Miss Jennings. He was smok- 
ing, but his short pipe dropped from his mouth 
at the sight of her, and he stepped into the road 
to allow her to pass, and looked sheepishly away. 

“John,” she said, sharply. 

“ Ah ! Lucy,” he replied, with one of the poor- 
est attempts at surprise of which mortal man could 
be capable. ‘ ‘ I didn’t see you. How d'ye do ?” 

“I haven’t asked for a lie. You did see me,” 
said his sister, emphatically. 

“I — I wasn’t quite certain — I — ” 

“A little further along that road you will find 
Sarah Eastbell,” she said, suddenly and sharply ; 
“she wants her cousin Reuben’s address. Give 
it her.” 

“ God bless me !” 

“God help you, you mean,” said the stern 
woman, as she marched away from him. 

Lucy Jennings had relented again after her 
own fashion. She was only a woman, after, all, 
with a woman’s right to alter her mind. 

“It sha’n’t be said that I stood in his way,” 
she muttered. 


CHAPTER III. 

WITH JOHN JENNINGS. 

John Jennings ran his hardest after Sarah 
Eastbell. He had not run for years — on the 
contrary, his walk had degenerated into the slow- 
est and sleepiest of dawdles — but on this occa- 
sion he was excited, and he skipped along the 
road like a lamp-lighter. He ran past Sarah 
Eastbell, for in his mind’s eye he could only see 
the lank, poorly clad girl of two years ago — he 
was even looking out for a striped cotton dress 
the worse for the wear and tear of London streets, 
and a squelched black bonnet with a lavender 
flower in it. He would have run fairly out of 
sight of her, if a female voice, high and shrill, had 
not called out “ John,” and stopped him. Then 
he looked back, open-mouthed, and waited for 
Sarah to approach, not believing it was she un- 
til she had come close to him, and held out her 
right hand, which was trembling a little. 

“You — you were running after me — your sis- 
ter sent you. Are you offended with me too, 
John, that you will not shake hands?” 

“I — I beg pardon. I hardly liked to— I — I 
didn’t know you, miss.” And then weak, flab- 
by John Jennings burst out crying, and put his 
right coat sleeve before his eyes. 

A little gloved hand touched his arm and low- 
ered it. 


“Isn’t this rather childish, John?” said Sa- 
rah, in kind reproof. 

“I know it is, but I can’t help it,” answered 
John, brushing his tears away with his malformed 
hand ; “ I’m not what I used to be, and seeing 
you has floored me. There have been so many 
changes !” 

“ Some for the better — I hope not any for the 
worse.” 

“ Ah — you don’t know !” 

“The change is still going on, and who does 
know how it will end ?” said Sarah, shrewdly. 

“ And you a real lady! that’s the wonderful- 
est part of it. ” 

“Yes, to me,” said Sarah, laughingly. “And 
now will you shake hands?” 

“God bless you — thankee, marm — miss, I 
should say,” cried the embarrassed John Jen- 
nings, rubbing his hands down his side before ac- 
cepting the honor. “ And to think that you have 
not forgotten us.” 

“Now, John Jennings,” she said, coaxinglv, 
“before another word is spoken, tell me where 
my cousin Reuben lives, please ? I ask it as a 
favor from an old friend. ” 

John Jennings was not likely to say “no” to 
this appeal. His sister Lucy possessed all the 
firmness of the family — he never had a sera]) of 
it. The tears stood in his eyes, and his lower 
lip quivered as he replied, 

“He lodges in Drury Lane. No. 790 — at the 
iron-monger’s.” 

“ He is poorer than he was?’’ 

“Oh yes.” 

“Tell me all about him, and what has hap- 
pened to bring him down so low,” said Sarah, 
restlessly, “while we wait at this corner fora 
cab.” 

“ A cab ! what for?” 

“We will go to him — you must show me the 
way. I don’t know much of London over the 
water; the streets in the Walworth Road are 
more familiar to me, John,” she added, sadly. 

“Go to Mr. Reuben — now!” said John Jen- 
nings, in surprise. 

“ Yes — wh} r not?” 

“I don’t think he will like it,” said John, 
thoughtfully. 

“John — see him I will,” cried Sarah Eastbell, 
very firmly. “He can’t treat me more harshly 
than your sister has. I have done him no harm ; 
he has no right to bear enmity against me.” 

“Lor’ bless you, Miss Eastbell, he does not 
bear you enmity — but he likes to be poor, I fan- 
cy. I wouldn’t advise you to mention money to 
him, that’s all,” said John, with a nod. 

An empty cab passed at this moment, and Sa- 
rah Eastbell raised her parasol. The vehicle 
stopped, and Sarah and John Jennings, the lat- 
ter with evident reluctance, got into it. 

“ Now what has happened ?” said Sarah, after 
the cabman had been told his destination and 
had driven on. “It is a long story, but pray get j 
it over before we come to Reuben’s house.” 

“It's a short story,” said John, “and soon 
told. After you left Hope Street, luck left it 
too. The Saxe-Gotha Gardens burst up, and j 
let me in for a lot of money. We were all in 
trouble and in a muddle, and the brokers were 
in when Reuben thought of the picture which his 
father wanted to buy.” 

“Ah! I remember,” cried Sarah. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ He got an artist friend to see it, and he said 
that it was worth two hundred pounds as it was, 
and might be worth more if restored, and he 
would bring a purchaser in three days time. 
We were all in high spirits, though Lucy and I 
had a terrible row as to what we should do with 
the money ; but on the very day that the pur- 
chaser was coming, we blew up. I was mixing 
material ; I had gone to the cupboard for half a 
glass of whisky to steady my nerves, when — 
hang! we were all in the street or the back- 
yard, and every thing left in the house was 
burned or blown to cinders ! The picture, Reu- 
ben’s books and papers, furniture — every thing 
clean gone to smash, and not a farthing of in- 
surance any where.” 

“And Reuben ?” asked Sarah, solicitously. 

“He was out. When he came back the place 
was a ruin. All his papers were gone, the money 
that he had, the novel that he was writing — but 
he came to see me in the hospital that night just 
as if nothing had happened.” 

“Well — and then?” 

“The worst came after the blow-up. I had 
borrowed money on the strength of selling the 
picture, and Reuben had become my security ; 
and when I couldn’t pay he was dropped on, and 
he has been working olf my loan as well as his 
own ever since — killing himself with work, poor 
boy.” 

Here John Jennings began to weep again. 

“How much is the debt?” 

“I don’t know — I can’t recollect,” said John. 
“ I haven’t been the same fellow since the acci- 
dent ; all my energy — and you remember what 
an energetic fellow I was — was blown away along 
with my prospects and my eyebrows and eye- 
lashes. I’m clean done for. What a mercy 
that you never married me ! ” 

The rueful aspect of John Jennings, and the 
first tender of his congratulations to Sarah, turn- 
ed his tragic recital to a burlesque, and Sarah 
Eastbell laughed merrily, to her companion’s 
surprise. 

“ There, there ! the worst is over, now that I 
have come to help you,” she said. “We will 
change all this.” ' • " r ‘ : ' 

“He will not have any help.” 

“Oh, don’t say that. He shall — he must.” 

“ I don’t see why he shouldn't ; but then there 
is no understanding him now.” 

“Why?” 

“I can’t say. He changed by degrees; he 
became more discontented and aggravating like 
after his awful bad luck. Then Lucy went rav- 
ing mad — had her ‘call,’ she says — and took to 
preaching, and bullied Reuben and me about our 
souls, till one day Reuben gave her a piece of his 
mind ; and we all went different ways after that. 
She spoke to me this morning — it was the first 
time for six months. She passes me like dirt — 
she—” 

“There, don’t begin to cry again,” Sarah ad- 
jured. “I’m sorry, but it might have been 
worse. I’m very glad that I came to London 
to lead the way to better times.” 

“ I hope you will, for Reuben’s sake. Reuben 
was a good fellow once.” 

“Once!” 

“ He’s not what he used to be. He’s not the 
same man, you see. He doesn’t treat me well, 
even !” 


“I see nothing — all is a mist before me,” 
murmured Sarah Eastbell. “Let me think, 
please. I don’t want to hear any more.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

PACE TO PACE AGAIN. 

John Jennings remained silent till the cab 
stopped in the dingy thoroughfare of Drury 
Lane before a small iron-monger’s shop, as shab- 
by and rusty in its exterior as the Jew-bolstered 
theatres for which the parish is famous. 

“ Here !” said Sarah, in a low whisper. 

“He is close to his work now: he saves om- 
nibus hire and shoe-leather, but he loses the 
country air and cheerful society of Hope Street,” 
explained John Jennings, with a sigh. 

The cabman was dismissed, and John Jen- 
nings paused on the curb-stone, and pointed 
to an open door on the left-hand side of the 
shop. 

“You go in there, and up to the top of all 
the stairs, and it’s the back-room, Miss East- 
bell.” 

“ Stop one moment,” cried Sarah, as John was 
about to beat a precipitate retreat: “will you 
not tell him I am here?” 

“I !” cried John Jennings. “He told me never 
to come again until he sent for me.” 

“ He said that ?” 

“Yes. I was a little the worse for liquor last 
week. I had met a friend, and we had had a 
drop of whisky together — not so much as Reu- 
ben thought, though — and then I came on here, 
and he — he turned me out of his room.” 

John Jennings had another little cry to him- 
self, and was moving away when Sarah Eastbell 
followed him. 

“You will not mind this to begin with. You 
are not proud, and I am indebted to you ; you 
are poor, and I am a friend with too much money. 
Pray do,” she said, very hurriedly ; then a bank- 
note was thrust into his hand, and she disap- 
peared in the murky passage of the house, whither 
he had not the courage to follow her. He had 
the courage to wait a quarter of an hour for her, 
firmly resolved on restoring the ten pounds which 
she had given him, although ten pounds to the 
man drifting on his way to Camberwell Union 
was a vision of Paradise glowing with molten 
gold and Irish whisky. Then he wavered, 
crossed over to the public-house, changed his 
note, and patronized the establishment with a 
small order for immediate consumption, after 
which he was seen no more in Drury Lane that 
morning. 

Meanwhile Sarah Eastbell, wavering in her 
courage, went slowly and softly up the stairs to- 
ward her second cousin’s room, speculating what 
she should say, and in what manner she should 
say it. She had grown nervous ; her heart was 
beating faster. All that had been whispered 
against Reuben Culwick was assisting to deter 
her, and to add to the difficulties of the mission 
which she had set herself, and on which she had 
refused all offers of assistance. This was her 
own work ; let her pursue it to the end. 

“What a dreadful place!” she muttered to 
herself, as she went up the dirty, uncovered 
stairs, glancing through the landing window as 


78 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


she passed at the wilderness of house -roofs 
stretching beyond it. Two years of affluence 
had set her old life wonderfully apart from her ; 
she did not remember at that moment the house 
in Potter’s Court, to which this shabby edifice in 
Drury Lane was heaven by comparison. 

She reached the top of the house, and went 
with slow dragging steps to the back-room door, 
on the panels of which she knocked- after anoth- 
er moment’s pause. Her heart thumped on in 
anticipation of his well-known voice in reply bid- 
ding her enter, and then sank at the silence which 
ensued. 

“Not in!” she whispered to herself, as she 
knocked again, and again the deep silence in the 
room beyond warned her of the fruitless sequel 
to her expedition. She tried the handle of the 
door, which she found unlocked ; there was anoth- 
er pause, then she opened the door, and entered 
the room with vacillating steps, resolved to wait 
till he came back, as under different circum- 
stances, and with her in distress, he would have 
waited half a lifetime. He was of great service 
to her once, and she had seemed scarcely grate- 
ful ; now let her prove what a deep debt of grat- 
itude had always lain at the bottom of her heart. 
This man, this second cousin, was already the 
hero of her life, despite his low estate and her 
magnificent prospects ; there was no common 
tie between the heiress — for, in all probability, 
would she not be the heiress ? — of Sedge Hill 
and this tenant of a back-room in Drury Lane. 
In her estimation he was always the great man, 
and she the poor girl. Sedge Hill belonged to 
him, and she was only a usurper ; she had come 
to tell him so, even to ask his pardon humbly for 
all past mistakes, and to entreat him, with all 
her homely eloquence, to consider the future as 
she would wish him to consider it. A truly grate- 
ful and warm-hearted young woman was Reu- 
ben’s second-cousin Sarah — not without her 
faults, poor child, although selfishness at nine- 
teen years of age was not among them — a little 
of a dreamer and enthusiast, very hot-headed as 
well as warm-hearted, but not a bad sort of 
heroine for a story-book, as heroines run nowa- 
days. 

Sarah Eastbell left the door ajar, and walked 
across the room, littered with many volumes, to- 
ward a desk heaped high with papers. The 
whole place was a true author’s den — a glimpse 
even of old Grub Street times, when authors 
worked hard for their daily bread, and none 
knew what became of the profits of their scrib- 
bling, and no one cared save the thieves who 
sold books. 

It was a barely furnished room, in which a 
man like Reuben Culwick must find it hard to ^ 
exist, Sarah Eastbell considered. How was it ! 
that his pride, his cleverness, his energy, had de- I 
scended to so low a level in an age when men with 
a writing capacity honorably hold their own? 

Sarah Eastbell did not ask that latter question, ' 
the ways and means of the literary profession be- 1 
ing a mystery to her mind ; but the little, shabby, | 
dusty room dismayed her, it was so great a fall 
from the splendors of the fire-work-maker’s first 
floor in Hope Street. Still he was busy, she 
thought. He must be earning money, unless he 
did his work for nothing. In all her life she 
had never seen so great a mass of papers and 
letters heaped together. 


She advanced more closely, with her feminine 
curiosity suddenly and acutely aroused. In the 
midst of the chaos on the desk there lay a little 
dainty note, stamped and sealed and unopened, 
which had been placed there by the landlady 
during his absence from home, and it was in a 
lady’s handwriting, Sarah Eastbell was assured. 
She was not particularly reserved about examin- 
ing it — indeed, her impulse toward it did not al- 
low time for those finer feelings to develop them- 
selves which two years’ training had striven to 
produce. She pounced upon the note like a 
hawk, in fact, and took it up with trembling 
hands, and with her big dark eyes dilating. 

“ Mary Holland !” she exclaimed. 

She examined the letter attentively. The hand- 
writing was large and characteristic and clear; 
the monogram on the back of the envelope was 
M. H., the postmark was Worcester: there could 
be no possibility of mistake. 

“Why has she written?” exclaimed Sarah; 
“ how dare she write to him?” 

At the same moment a hand touched her arm, 
and Reuben Culwick’s voice said, politely, 

“ When you have quite done with my letter, 
Miss Eastbell, I should feel obliged by its return.” 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE SECOND COUSINS. 

Sarah Eastbell gave a little scream of sur- 
prise, and turned to greet her cousin. 

“ Reuben — Mr. Culwick!” she exclaimed. “I 
am so glad !” 

She extended both her hands toward him, and 
he did not check the impulse, but received them 
in his own, and shook them warmly, winding up 
the proceedings by taking his letter gently and 
delicately from her. 

“I think this is mine,” said Reuben, quietly. 

“ Yes,” responded Sarah, with a blush. 

“ Thank you,” said Reuben. “ Will you take 
a seat while you favor me with the object of your 
visit?” - 

Reuben very unceremoniously cleared a chair 
of about half a hundred-weight of books by tilt- 
ing the volumes forw ard to the floor, and Sarah 
sat down and looked timidly and yet scrutiniz- 
inglv toward him. He did not speak to her 
again ; he gave her time to collect her ideas, or 
to observe the effect of two years’ change, of two 
years’ trouble and hard work and worldly drudg- 
ery, upon Kim. T his gave him time also to note 
how years had remodeled Second-cousin Sarah — 
how the gawky girl had grown into a handsome 
young woman, whom he could only identify with 
past forlorn ness by her large, dark, wistful eves. 
And she saw, with a strange heart-sinking for 
which she could not account, that there was a 
startling change in him who was facing her. It 
was Reuben Culwick certainly, but hardly the 
man with whom she had parted last. Young 
still, some two or three years on the right side 
of thirty, and yet looking so old and thin anti 
care-worn that she was uncertain if she should 
have known him in the streets. It was only when 
he smiled that the face reminded her of old times, 
and there was an odd kind of smile lighting up 
his features before she had found courage to en- 
ter into explanations. He waited very patiently 


for her to resume the discourse, or to continue 
her study ot him ; and a hand that had wasted 
somewhat, and become thin and bony, was pass- 
ed tl.rough his ragged brown beard, after a habit 
which brought him even nearer to old days 

“ 1 a “ J ei 7 sorry,” she said at last, and in 
spasmodic fashion. 

Only a few minutes since you were ‘so glad ’ 
if you remember,” he said, lightly, almost face- 
tiously. 

“I was glad to meet you again, ” was the frank 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


79 


, n r ? at 1S why 1 have away, Miss East- 
help’ »> CRUSe * am P rou( i enough to be above all 

‘‘Don’t call me Miss Eastbell,” cried Sarah 
with a sudden exhibition of warmth that surprised 
him— you did not two years since. ” 

“No; but then you were a child, not a lady 
patroness, was the answer. 

Here was another pause, as if the reply had 
been a hard one, and difficult to cope with ; and 
then Sarah Eastbell said : 



response, “but I am sorry to see you like this, 
and to find you in such a place as this.” 

“I am in my right place,” he said, with a lit- 
tle laugh that was hardly natural : “an individ- 
ual totally undeserving of your sympathy.” 

“ Why have you never written to me or grand- 
mother? Why have you not come to Sedge 
Hill ? Why have you kept away from those who 
would have been always very proud to help you?” 


“ Why do you wound me with your satire ? In 
what way, Reuben, have I given you offense?” 

It was an honest and an earnest question, and 
disarmed the man whom poverty and misfortune 
had rendered harsh of late days. The tears 
swimming in the dark eyes were evidence of rhe 
pain which he had caused her, and he said, in a 
more natural tone— in the tone which she re- 
membered best — 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


80 

“ You must not mind what I say ; I am more 
irritable than I used to be ; I have grown to like 
my own company, and to dislike visitors of all 
degrees, in a true Timon of Athens fashion. I 
am a sour kind of fellow now, who prides him- 
self upon saving hard things, and so the less you 
see of him the better. Still, you must not hint 
at helping him, and for God’s sake, Sarah, spare 
the man your pity.” 

There was dignity as well as passion in his 
words, as he beat the letter that he had taken 
from his cousin’s hands upon his knee. 

Sarah Eastbell felt. at the end of her generous 
plotting — saw already her utter inability to be of 
service to Reuben Culwick. Between him and 
the myriad of intentions for his welfare that she 
had dreamed of was an obduracy beyond her 
power to remove. 

“You are not offended with me?” she inquired, 
softly. 

“No. Why should you have given me of- 
fense ?” 

“You take it as an insult that my blind grand- 
mother and I are in your father’s house, and pos- 
sess your father’s property, but we — ” 

“I will not hear,” cried Reuben, fiercely in- 
terrupting her. “ When I knew that my father 
kept his word with me, I became less of a phi- 
losopher than I had bargained for — more human, 
more selfish, more of a coward — and I am only 
slowly getting over the sense of disappointment 
which followed the disinheritance. I was vain 
enough to think myself a hero, when I was only 
a poor money-loving prig.” 

“ I — I — hardly understand,” said Sarah, be- 
wildered at this confession. 

His manner changed at once. • 

“No, no; probably not,” he said, quickly, “and 
why should I trouble you about my feelings, even 
if you did ?” 

“Will you tell me why you did not answer my 
letters ?” 

“I answered the first one ; the rest were all in 
the same key, and I wanted to get away from 
your world, and to forget it. I knew that you 
would soon grow used to your prosperity ; and 
every offer of assistance was galling, because I 
had sworn bitterly and emphatically never to be 
assisted.” 

“And yet you loved money,” said his cousin, 
reproachfully. 

“I was defiant, not cast down,” Reuben con- 
tinued, without heeding her remark. “ I should 
have conquered myself and my rage if all kinds 
of troubles had not heaped themselves upon me 
— if disappointments had not come — if debts had 
not grown large — if friends had been true — if 
life, even in Hope Street, had been what it was. 
But it was a grand transformation scene, only 
the Caves of Despair came last, and left me here, 
Sarah.” 

There was the faintest ring of mournfulness in 
his last words, and his listener took a little hope 
from it, until he said : 

“I have told more to you, child, than to any 
living soul ; but then you are a relation whose 
interest has lasted longer than I thought that it 
would.” 

“ You did not believe in the gratitude of the 
girl whom you rescued,” cried Sarah. 

“I believed in the girl becoming a woman,” 
he replied, a little enigmatically. 


“And you were not curious concerning her 
life ; in prosperity it had not half the interest for 
you that her misery and grief had,” said Sarah. 

“Prosperity tones down character, and it was 
your misfortunes that interested me,” he answer- 
ed. “They were terrible troubles for one so young 
as you were. ” 

“You were my savior,” cried Sarah Eastbell. 

“No, no; I was studying trouble at the time, 
and you came in handy,” said he, coolly. 

“What do you mean ?” 

“I was writing a sensational novel. That 
failed, and took me down another step, when I 
was ill of fever, and desperately in debt, too. I 
didn’t give way. Please to understand that I 
fought on — that I have been fighting ever since 
you and I said ‘good-by’ in Hope Street.” 

“ But your debts — if — ” 

“ I have got them under : living economically 
and starving with an easy grace have helped me 
in an effort to pay my creditors every farthing 
that I owe them, or that the indiscretion of mes 
amis has let me in for!” 

“ A word would have saved you from this cru- 
el drudgery.” 

“A word to Mrs. Eastbell, who — But there ! 
I have nothing to say against the old lady. She 
is still well?” 

“ Still well,” repeated Sarah. 

“ She enjoys her affluence?” 

“No,” said Sarah, shaking her head energet- 
ically. 

“ So I have heard,” responded Reuben. 

He glanced at the letter in his hand, and Sarah 
said at once, 

“ Why does my grandmother’s companion 
write to you ?” 

“Out of pity,” he added, dryly. 

“How is it that she is acquainted with your 
address, while I have had to scheme and search 
for it — why has she not told me ?” 

“ I must leave that for Miss Holland to answer 
for herself.” 

“Very well — as you please — it is no business 
of mine,” said Sarah, rapidly. 

“You return to Worcester to-day ?” said Reu- 
ben. 

“Yes.” 

“ And you came from Worcester — when ?” 

“On Saturday.” 

“ On what errand, may I ask?” 

“To find you — and to meet with this misera- 
ble rebuff.” 

“Oh! my second cousin,” he cried, “you do 
not know how wonderfully complaisant I have 
been to-day, out of compliment to this unlooked- 
for visit. You are not aware that this coming of 
yours has done me a vast amount of good ; and 
will be something to look back upon, and to re- 
member you by, though I hope that you will nev- 
er come here again ; never,” he repeated. 

“You do not ask me what I come for?” said 
Sarah, with flashing eyes. 

“You have told me, indirectly. To help me.” 

“Yes; as I will help, and in spite of you,” 
she cried. “ The money is yours, not ours ; we 
are keeping it for you ; I am watchful of every 
penny of it.” 

“ And you are here against the wishes of your 
grandmother,” added Reuben. 

“How do you know that?” cried Sarah, in 
amazement. 


SEC0ND-C01 

“I can guess it.” 

I) Mary Holland is a spy ! She has told vou !” 
* Not a l word * Your own manner has told me 
that you have come here unadvisedly— in oppo- 
sition to a strange old woman whom my father’s 
money has rendered unhappy. And, Sarah, you 
must come no more; you must turn over a new 
leal, or blot out the old : this running wild about 
the country will not suit with your position in so- 
ciety, and the old friend says, ‘Keep away.”’ 

“ Will you answer me one question ?” 

“ Z ery probab1 ^ J will. L have no secrets.” 
No secrets! cried Sarah, with an indignant 

nkelyr ,at ^ Iett6r in ^ hand ’ UyeS ’ thatS 
“ And the question ?” 

“Will you ever come to Sedge Hill?” 

4 As soon as I can afford it,” he answered; 
when I have a decent coat to my back, and 
sufficient spare cash to pay my railway fare to 
Worcester— and coat and cash' are both earned 
by the sweat of my brow— I will pay you a re- 
turn visit. ” 

“You bear us no ill-will?” 

“ Why should I ?” was the rejoinder. “ I am 
only tenacious of not being helped in any way. 

If I come to Worcester, you must not treat me 
as a poor relation— you must not shock my sense 
of independence.” 

“Trust us.” 

“ Then good-by,” he said, rising: “if you stay 
any longer, the world will be talking.” 

“Let it!” said Sarah, defiantly, though she 
rose also. 

“ And I shall be dinnerless. I have my din- 
ner to earn before two this afternoon. ” 

“Oh! if—” 

Sarah Eastbell paused. It was only bv holdirig 
back her charity that she kept friends with him. 

“ I have not done any good,” she murmured ; 

“ but I am glad that I have seen you — very glad. 
Good-by. ” 

“ Good-by.” 

He shook hands with her, opened the door, and 
allowed her to pass from his room. He stood on 
the landing-place and watched her descend the 
murky stairs ; as she glanced up at him and 
smiled he could see that the light was shining 
through her tears, but he smiled back again, and 
called out “ Good-by” once more, and it was only 
as she passed away from his sight that the shadow 
stole upon him, and left him stern and thoughtful. 

“ Time has not spoiled her yet,” he muttered ; 

“I am glad that I have seen her.” 

Sarah was in the street then, looking up and 
down Drury Lane, and doubtful which way to 
turn. She was still hesitating, when Lucy Jen- 
nings suddenly stood before her. 

“Well, what did he say? What have you been 
talking about all this time ? What good have you 
done ?” she asked, with great eagerness. 

Sarah only replied to the last question — only 
thought of her own futile expedition of relief. 

“I have done no good,” she said, sadly. 

“ He would not accept of assistance?” 

“No.” 

“He was hard and uncharitable — he taunted 
you with all his heart’s bitterness ?” 

‘ ‘ He was kind. I — I think that he was glad 
to see me. ” 

“But he told you not to come again ? — I am 
sure of it.” 

F 


N SARAH. 81 

“Yes, Lucy, he said that.” 

“ How is he looking?” 

“ Older— paler— like a man who has been dan- 
gerously ill.” 

“ Did he— did he speak of me ?” 

“ Not a word.” 

Not one ! I am glad of that,” she answered, 
moodily. 

Before another syllable could be exchanged, 
she had turned into a narrow court and disap- 
peared, and Sarah Eastbell was left to proceed 
upon her homeward route. 


CHAPTER VI. 

VISITORS AT SEDGE HILL. 

Sarah Eastbell went back to Sedge Hill with 
her maid in a disconsolate frame of mind. She 
had left home full of confidence in the result of 
her mission, full of faith in being of service to 
Reuben Culwick, and of Reuben being grateful 
for her efforts in his behalf, and the result had 
been an ignominious discomfiture. She had left 
home against the wishes of her grandmother, and 
in opposition to the advice of her grandmother’s 
companion, Mary Holland, who had taken care 
of the old lady when Sarah, at the grandmother’s 
request, had spent twelve months abroad perfect- 
ing an education that had been seriously neglect- 
ed in her youth. Sarah had left Sedge Hill in a 
rebellious spirit, angry with all who had been op- 
posed to her impulse to set forth in search of her 
cousin ; and she was scarcely returning in an 
amiable mopd. Of late days there had hardly 
been peace and happiness in the big house ; Sa- 
rah had had a great deal of her own way, but 
there was a dominant spirit at times in the feeble 
old woman who had risen to greatness, and who 
had Culwick blood in her, and that spirit which 
had died out apparently in the almshouse would 
manifest itself in the latter days of her prosperi- 
ty, and in a singular fashion, worthy of her dead 
brother’s eccentricity. 

Still the granddaughter was not sorry that she 
had been to London, although she had failed in 
being of service to Reuben Culwick. She had 
seen him; he had promised to come to Sedge 
Hill some day ; he was not altered so terribly as 
Miss Jennings had asserted ; he had spoken kind- 
ly to her ; he was not jealous of her position in 
his father’s house ; he had suffered more from 
his own ventures in life than from his disinher- 
itance; it was not the one misfortune, but the 
many, which had altered him and aged him, and 
he would be the same frank, warm-hearted fel- 
low presently, she prayed. 

She reached Worcester in safety, and a hired 
fly took her the rest of the way home. There 
was no carriage in waiting for her ; indeed, Si- 
mon Culwick’s equipage, his coachman and foot- 
men, had been put down as unnecessary items 
of expenditure by Mrs. Eastbell within a month 
after coming into her rights. There was a pony- 
chaise to the good, but that was not expected at 
the station to take Sarah Eastbell and maid to 
Sedge Hill. It was between eight and nine o’clock 
of that autumn evening when home was reached, 
and the great front-door was opened to admit her. 

The staid man-servant wore so grave an ex- 
pression of countenance that Sarah said, quickly, 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


82 

“ All is well, I hope, Wills ? 

“ Yes, ma'am, pretty well.” 

“Mrs. Eastbell is up stairs, I suppose? was 
her next question, as she prepared to ascend the 
stairs in search of her grandmother. ^ 

“She is down stairs this evening.” 

“Indeed!” 

Mrs. Eastbell had been in bed for the last 
month, and the news of the old lady having mus- 
tered sufficient resolution to get up during her ab- 
sence was a surprise to her granddaughter. 

“ Down stairs — where ?” 

“ In the drawing-room.” 

“She has been ill advised to go there. The 
place is large and cold, and — ” 

Sarah Eastbell paused in mute astonishment, 
for the sound of a violin, not unskillfullv played, 
came from the direction of the room in which she 
had been told her grandmother was. Music had 
filled the house with harmony of late days, for 
Marv Holland was a fair pianist, and Mrs. East- 
bell was fond of music, it had been ascertained ; 
but violin-playing had not been one of “the com- 
panion’s” accomplishments. 

“ Who is it ?” she cried. 

‘ * It’s Captain Peterson, Miss Eastbell. If you 
will allow me to explain how — ” 

But Sarah Eastbell was of too excitable a na- 
ture to wait for an explanation, when the mys- 
tery was to be cleared up first-hand, and she swept 
by the servant, and went at once to the drawing- 
room— a luxuriously furnished apartment, which 
had not been used a great deal in Simon Cul- 
wick’s time. In her dark hat and cloak which 
she had worn during her journey she entered the 
room with a scant degree of ceremony, pausing 
at the door to survey the change which had come 
over Sedge Hill since she had gone away last 
Saturday. It was a great change, and took time 
to recover from. Presently she might under- 
stand it — not just then. 

Th*re were four persons in the room besides 
herself, and she looked from one to another with 
a keen watchfulness that hardly died away when 
her appearance was observed. Her heart sank a 
great deal, but she had the self-possession to keep 
a bold front to the enemy — for surely it was the 
enemy who had appeared at Sedge Hill in the 
unlucky time of her absence, and whose coming 
she had feared before that day, although not ex- 
pecting it in this fashion. 

Half sitting, half reclining by the great coal 
fire burning in the steel grate, was the old blind 
woman, her impassive face turned toward the 
flame, as if for warmth, and her spare form draped 
in heavy ruby velvet, over which meandered a 
gold chain thick enough for a door- fastening. 
On her gray hairs had been set a turban kind of 
head-dress, but it had slipped sidewise, and pre- 
sented a grotesque appearance in the sleep or 
reverie in which she was indulging as Sarah en- 
tered the room. Sarah Eastbell had seen her 
grandmother once or twice in state apparel, which 
had been of her relative’s especial selection, when 
she came into her property, and her gaze passed 
on quickly from her to Mary Holland, quiet and 
grave over her wool-work, and from Mary Hol- 
land to the two visitors. 

The younger of the two was her brother Tom, 
glossy as a raven in a brand-new suit of black, 
and with a black satin stock which concealed ev- 
ery scrap of linen that he possessed, and steeped 


him in mourning to his chin ; and the stranger 
was a middle-sized, good-looking, highly colored 
dark man of eight or nine and twenty, who at the 
moment of Sarah’s entrance was playing a violin 
fantasia for the benefit of the company, and was 
far too absorbed in his performance to observe 
the addition to the number of his audience. 

It was Mary Holland who first perceived our 
heroine, and rose as if to cross the room toward 
her, subsiding into her seat again as Thomas 
Eastbell sprang from his chair with a shout of 
welcome that nearly scared his grandmother into 
the fire. 

“ What, Sal— Sally— Sarah !” he exclaimed, 
correcting his address to her as he proceeded, 
“to think that you wasn’t — that you weren’t at 
home to say how d’ye do to your only brother 
after all these blessed years ! Kiss me, gal- 
how are you ? — Lord bless you ! — shiver my tim- 
bers, what a beauty you have growed to ! 

Sarah drew a deep breath, and recoiled as the 
pock-marked face came close to hers. 

“ Keep back, please — wait a moment,” she said, 
in a low, suppressed voice. * 

But Thomas Eastbell was impetuous, like his 
sister. He flung his arms round her, and clasp- 
ed her to liis bosom, crushing her hat and fall in 
the process. 

“ I’m delighted to see you, Sarah — you don’t 
know how glad f am to see you again,” said Tom ; 
“we were always such chums like. Why, you 
and I scarcely ever had an angry word ; we agreed 
together beautifully. ” 

“You came here — when?” asked Sarah, list- 
lessly, as she got away from him, and removed 
her hat and cloak. The fantasia had ceased, and 
the violinist was standing, fiddle and bow in hand, 
looking down at the carpet in a reserved and high- 
ly decorous manner, as befitted a stranger in the 
house. 

“Saturday evening, late, after you had gone.” 
answered Tom. “ Grandmother was awfully 
pleased, I can tell you.” 

“ And how long a visit do you intend to — ” be- 
gan Sarah, when he interrupted her. 

“Oh, confound it! we’ll talk of going away 
another time. Grandmother doesn’t talk of my 
going away, but of my stopping here for good, as 
I have a right to, as well as other people, mind 
you. Why not?” 

There was a little snap of his teeth at this in- 
quiry, and Sarah remembered the clash well, and 
shuddered. 

“We need not talk of this at present,” she 
said, uneasily ; “I haven’t had time to think.” 

“ You’ll be more glad to see me when you get 
more used to me,” said her brother, nodding his 
head emphatically; “I'm a fellow who always 
improves upon acquaintance. I don’t think Miss 
Holland cares much about me yet, but she will 
presently.” 

Mary Holland looked at him steadily, without 
replying to his remark, and the piping tones of 
Mrs. Eastbell were now heard. 

“Is that my Sally?” 

“ l r es, grandmamma, it is I, ’’cried Sarah, hur- 
rying across the room and kissing her affection- 
ately. The thin arms stole round the girl’s neck, 
and the hands were clasped behind it. 

If old Sarah Eastbell had changed to a cer- 
tain extent with her prosperity, the love for the 
girl who had nursed her in her poverty had not 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


changed with it. Thomas sat down to watch this 
instance of affection furtively, and the violinist 
discovering that it was no one’s place to introduce 
him to Miss Eastbell, sat down also, put his in- 
strument under the table, folded his arms upon 
Jus narrow chest, and assumed the position of a 
spectator also. 

“You have been a long while away, Sally,” 
said Mrs. Eastbell. 

“ Not very long.” 

“ I haven’t got on well without you.” 

“ Oh yes, bravely,” answered Sarah. “ Why, 
you are down stairs again— the mistress in your 
own house!” 

“ Such a house as it is!” said Mrs. Eastbell dis- 
paragingly; “for of all the beastly draughts, blow- 
ing all ways at once, I’ll back this barn against a 
million of ’em. It’s a-killing me, Sally.” 

“No, no.” 

I was better off at St. Oswald’s — there was 
only one door there which let the wind in. — Tom” 
(suddenly turning her sightless face toward her 
grandson), “you can remember how comfortable 
I was when you came back from sea.” 

“Yes ; but this is a palace, old lady.” 

“I can’t see it,” grumbled Mrs. Eastbell ; “ I 
have all the inconveniences of a roomy chapel, 
without the comforts of a home. I nearly broke 
my neck coming down those slippery stairs to-day 
— I hate stairs. Tom, have you introduced the 
capting to Sal ? I don’t think I have heard you 
mention his name.” 

“ Bless me, no ! — Captain Peterson, my sister 
Sarah. — Miss Eastbell, my particular friend, Cap- 
tain Peterson.” 

Sarah bowed, and looked hard at the captain, 
who rose solemnly, and made a grave obeisance 
in return. 

“ It affords me great pleasure to have the hon- 
or of an introduction to Miss Eastbell,” he said, 
in a low tone of voice, which died away to a whis- 
per as he sat down again. 

“ My friend is shy at present — excuse his shy- 
ness, Sarah, will you ?” said Thomas Eastbell, so- 
licitously. 

“Certainly, ’’said Sarah. 

“He’s the quietest gentleman I ever remem- 
ber to have met,” said the grandmother, reflect- 
ively; “ but he plays the fiddle beautiful. Tom 
and he have been traveling together half over the 
world. — Didn’t you say so, Tom ?” 

“ I did, grandmother.” 

“ And to think that you and Tom are both to- 
gether in this great, grand, windy house,” said 
Mrs. Eastbell, “both taking care of me in my 
old age ! You used to tell me all the good news 
of Tom, Sally, and how he was getting on in the 
world and prospering, and that used to keep my 
heart light.” 

“ Ay, it did,” said Sarah, sorrowfully. 

“And I’m very much obliged to Sally,” said 
Tom, with a sudden grin that was as spasmodic 
as a clock-work figure’s. “Some sisters would 
have backbited a brother while he was awav, and 
set his relatives against him ; but you didn’t, 
Sally?” 

“No.” 

“Not that you have been talking much about 
me lately, I understand,” said Tom, “since the 
dear old lady has come into a fortune. But you 
did once — and I’m grateful to the last day of m.y 
life.” 3 *1 


83 

“ Just listen to him, Sally. He talks like a 
book. 

“And though we have always been good 
friends, still, if there has been any little differ- 
ence— I don’t remember any— from this day by- 
gones are by-gones, sister Sarah.” 

He leaned across the table in order that he 
might peer more closely into her face, and Sarah 
answered, slowly, 

“We will talk of the past— and of the future— 
at a fitting time.” 

“ As you please. Take your own time, Sarah,” 
was the reply ; “you will find me and the captain 
in the picture-gallery presently. We drink a part- 
ing glass and smoke a parting weed there always. 
Die captain is a follower of the arts himself.” 

, ^ homas ! said the captain, raising both 

hands deprecatingly— “ an admirer of them, that 
is all.” 

A con )poser, by Heaven — a genuine com- 
poser ! cried Tom Eastbell, slapping his hand 
unceiemoniously on his friend’s music-book. 
“Thank you, Thomas, for the compliment.” 

You need not make quite so much banging 
as all that, Tom,” said Mrs. Eastbell, in a severe 
tone; “I can’t stand that noise at my time of life.” 

“I beg pardon, grandmother; I am in good 
spirits to-night, that’s all,” said Tom, deferential- 
ly : “ Sarah’s back, and for a moment I had for- 
gotten my bereavement. ” 

“What bereavement ?— ah ! your wife,” said 
Sarah. “Is she dead, then?” 

Dead and gone, poor soul. Don’t you see 
how deep my mourning is?” 

“Yes, I see it.” 

“A better wife never lived,” said Tom, making 
a profuse display of a white cotton handkerchief; 
“she was every thing to me— she was the nobbiest 
I should say the noblest of women. Captain, 

I can t stand this ; I shall be better 'in the pic- 
ture-gallery ; my feelings are too much for me. ” 
“Don’t give way, Tom, don’t give way,” said 
Captain Peterson, as he took his friend’s arm and 
led him sobbing from the room. 

“Hasn’t he left the door open?” asked Mrs. 
Eastbell. 

“Yes.” 

“I thought so by the blowing down the back 
of my neck. It’s a pity he doesn’t know better 
than to leave all the doors open, but I suppose 
they’re used to wind at sea, Sally?” 

“Yes, grandmother. ” 

“ Now that they’ve gone, I want to know about 
your wild-goose chase— to scold you for it— to 

ask after that stuck-up fellow, Reuben, who ” 

‘ ‘ Presently— presently. I must see those men 
at once,” cried Sarah, starting up, with eyes 
gleaming and hands clinched. 

“ What men ?” 

“ I — I must talk to Tom for a few minutes. I 
have forgotten something.” 

Sarah darted away without heeding a gesture, 
quick and impassioned, of Mary Holland. 

‘ ‘ I must know all,” she murmured, as she went 
swiftly along the corridor toward the picture-gal- 
lery. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


CHAPTER VII. 

COUNCIL OF WAR. 

Sarah Eastbell lost not many minutes in 
following her brother and his friend to the pic- 
ture-gallery, where the two men had already con- 
trived to render themselves as comfortable as cir- 
cumstances permitted. An oil lamp was lighted 
on the centre-table, on which were set decanters 
of spirits, and a box of cigars, patronized only by 
Captain Peterson, Thomas Eastbell preferring a 
small meerschaum pipe of most unwholesome as- 
pect. 

It was a weird picture, uncommon to that 
house ; and Sarah Eastbell surveyed it through 
a haze of tobacco-smoke, and wondered how long 
it would last, and what would result from it. 
The place was full of shadow, one light being in- 
sufficient to dispel the gloom which hung about 
the corners of the room, and lurked behind the 
curtains of the bay-window, which was open, 
showing a vista of dark garden ground and a sky 
full of stars. The costly pictures on the walls 
were faintly perceptible in the dim light, and the 
one figure in relief was that of Thomas Eastbell, 
sprawling in Simon Culwick’s chair, with his legs 
ungracefully dangling over the left arm. Cap- 
tain Peterson, reserved even in the presence of his 
particular friend, sat with his chair tilted against 
the marble mantel-piece, and smoked peacefully 
in the shadows that were there. They were tak- 
ing their amusements sadly, after the fashion of 
their country. 

“Come in, Sarah; don’t be bashful,” said 
Thomas Eastbell, whose sharp little eyes had 
seen his sister enter at the door and pause there- 
at. “You are very welcome, I assure you.” 

Sarah shut the door at this invitation, and walk- 
ed quickly toward the visitors, taking a seat close 
to her brother, and looking sternly and fixedly at 
him. 

‘ ‘ Why do you come ? What do you want ?” 

“Two rather cool questions to begin with,” 
said Tom Eastbell. “ I put it to my honorable 
friend if this is a nice way of opening the con- 
wersation.” 

“You are here with a purpose,” said Sarah, 
persistently. “ State it, if you please.” 

“Why?” 

“I would understand the position.” 

“It is a very simple one,” said her brother, 
coolly. 

“I am not the child I was ; I have learned to 
know the world, and to take my part in it. I 
know you, Thomas Eastbell, and — God help you 
— I know no good or honest action that you have 
ever done.” 

“I never had the chance.” 

“Knowing that,” continued Sarah, very firm- 
ly, and without heeding his reply, “I will not 
have you and your friend in this house. You play 
a dangerous game in your defiance of me, for I 
am mistress here.” 

“Oh, indeed ! — that’s it, is it ?” said her broth- 
er, with a sneer. “ I am to tell my grandmother 
that she’s a cipher in her own house — that she’s 
nobody, and you’re the cock of the walk, and 
want to grab all her money when she dies.” 

“Tell her what you will, ’’said Sarah; “the 
answer which strips the veil from your bad life 
will be sufficient to drive you from us.” 

\ Thomas Eastbell was not prepared for his sis- 


ter’s firmness. She was right— she was changed. 
This was not the woman of two years ago, who 
had had some hopes of him, and whom he had 
talked over more than once, who had been afraid 
of him, and who had not been altogether wanting 
in affection for him ; this was some one whom 
he had scarcely expected to find at Sedge Hill. 

Mr. Eastbell’s demeanor took a sudden turn for 
the better ; he laid aside his meerschaum pipe, 
put his legs in a more natural position, and leaned 
forward toward Sarah with his two hands plant- 
ed on his knees. 

“You would ruin me if you could, then?” he 
said; “you would stand between me and mv 
share of the good luck which has come to the old 
woman ? You would live on rich as a Jew, and 
leave me to starve, or steal — to go to the workus 
or the prison ?” 

“I have not said that,” replied Sarah Eastbell. 

“ You have not told me anything of the change*, 
I have found all this out for myself,” he said, 
reproachfully. 

“You ran away from me in London; I did 
not know where you had gone.” 

“ I was easily found, if you had taken the 
trouble to ask.” 

He was in Horsemonger Lane Jail ; but he 
did not enter into details about that. 

“I think that possibly I am in the way,” said 
the gentleman by the fire-place, intruding upon 
the conversation for the first time; “you and 
your brother can arrange this little matter so 
much better without me, Miss Eastbell.” 

“ I think we can,” said Sarah, quietly. 

“ It is a family affair with which I have noth- 
ing to do. I will take a stroll in the garden if 
you will allow me.” 

No one offered any objection to his suggestion, 
and Tom’s friend rose and went softly out of the 
room, and through the open bay-window into the 
night air, where he was lost to view. 

“Will you tell me who that is?” said Sarah, 
pointing to the window through which Captain 
Peterson had disappeared. 

“A naval officer — merchant service,” Tom ex- 
plained ; “an intimate friend of mine — a regu- 
lar swell.” 

“ The last time I saw him, it was in Potter’s 
Court,” said Sarah Eastbell, decisively; “he 
came in and out of No. 2 at uncertain hours of 
the night, and gave directions to men who were 
his brothers, and who seemed of a lower position 
than himself. He took away with him, I remem- 
ber also, packages of bad money. He was a cap- 
tain then, but it was of a gang of coiners!” 

Thomas Eastbell sat back in his chair and 
glared at his sister. When he had recovered 
from his amazement at her memory, or at the 
new affront which she had put upon him by doubt- 
ing the honor of his friend, he responded with 
manifest excitement. 

“Upon my soul, Sarah, you are wrong!” he 
cried, with great volubility; “it’s the similarity 
of names that’s misled you. Those chaps in Pot- 
ter’s Court were called Peterson who lived down 
stairs : so they were. I had quite forgotten it, 
cuss me if I hadn’t ! This pal of mine — this gen- 
tleman I mean — is a real, true, perfect gentle- 
man. I wouldn’t say he was if he wasn’t — it’s 
no matter to me. He’s a man of property, and 
has been very kind to me since Soph died. He 
took a fancy to me, and we’ve been a good deal 


about together, and every body likes him much. 
He has nothing to do with the Potter’s Court lot ; 
that shows how you jump at things, and think 
the worst of every body. Them Petersons of 
Walworth weren’t at all respectable, I’m sorry to 
say.” J 

Sarah Eastbell listened apathetically to a por- 
tion of this protest; then her gaze shifted to the 
ground, and she was deep in thought when he 
had concluded. The problem was intricate still, 
and she was no nearer to a solution. She had 
shown her cards, but her adversary had kept his 
to himself. 

‘‘Have you any thing to suggest?” asked Thom- 
as Eastbell, after waiting for his sister’s reply, 
i which came not. 

Sarah looked up. 

“ You want money, I suppose ?” 

“ Who doesn’t ?” he added, with a short, sharp 
laugh. r 

“How much will satisfy you, and take vou 
from this house ?” 

“ Grandmother does not want to part with me,” 
he said ; “ but if you and I are not likely to agree, 
and matters can be arranged, I don’t know that 
I should object, if the screw was liberal.” 

“ What do you want ?” was the practical ques- 
tion again, put in a different form. 

“A good round sum — annual — payable in ad- 
vance,” he said, “and my name down in the will 
for a fair share. ” 

“That can not be.” 

“Then give me a lump sum now, and have 
done with me. I’ll go abroad— I’ll take another 
name — I’ll do any thing.” 

“Yes— for money,” said Sarah, with a sigh: 
“ I think you would.” 

“How’s it to be done? If I talk of going 
away, the old woman will not be too ready with 
the cash. She’s a close un, mind you, and you 
■ won’t get over her in a hurry. ” 

“I have money of my own. I must arrange 
with you, and spare that poor old woman. Ah, 
Tom !” she said, sadly, “ let her think the best of 
j you till the last.” 

“Oh! I have no objection whatever, ” replied 
the brother; “but I don’t understand how any 
| money of your own — ” 

“ I act for grandmother in my own name, and 
for every thing. ” 

“The deuce!” muttered Thomas Eastbell. 
j “So it is in my power to help you a little, but 
| you must not be too extortionate. I hold the 
money — grandmother holds the money — in trust 
for others.” 

“You don’t mean — ” 

“Never mind what I mean, ’’said Sarah. “All 
my meanings belong to the future, when I may 
be no richer than I am — when I shall have noth- 
ing to do with this house. ” 

“But grandmother — ” 

“Leaves all to me — trusts to my judgment in 
every thing. By making me your enemy, Tom, 
you make yourself a beggar.” 

She could not impress this fact too strongly 
upon a gentleman of Mr. Thomas Eastbell’s turn 
of mind, and he sat with his hands clutching his 
knees, perplexed at last by the problem which she 
had set him to solve. He did not know that she 
had risen till her hand fell lightly on his shoulder, 
and then he started, as at the touch of a police 
officer. 


85 

“ Make up your mind to go away, and go away 
soon— before grandmother has time to guess what 
you are, and what your life has been.” 

“ What do you call ‘ soon ?’ ” 

“To-morrow — the next day at the farthest.” 

‘ It’s hard. It’s beastly unfair,” he muttered, 
as Sarah left him, with another warning of the 
evils of delay. He reflected on the matter after 
she had gone. If Sarah were perplexed what to 
do, equally was he perplexed now as to the right 
course to pursue. A false step might ruin every 
chance that he had. He had come for monev, 
but he did not know what to ask, or how much 
money was at his sister’s disposal. 

Captain Peterson came back into the room, 
and shut and fastened the bay-window carefully 
after him, as though he were nervous about 
thieves. Having secured the bolts to his satis- 
faction, he advanced softly toward his friend, 
who sat there still perplexed, with his dirty meer- 
schaum pipe in his hand again. 

“How have you got on with her, Tom?” he 
asked, in a low tone, as he dropped into his old 
place bv the mantel-piece. 

“Middling.” 

“ She does not like you — she is afraid of vou.” 

“ Of both of us.” 

“I am sure that I have been particularly 
quiet, Tom,” said the captain. 

“ She remembers you at No. 2 Potter’s Court, 
old fellow. ” 

“ The devil she does !” ejaculated Captain Pe- 
terson, with more animation than he had hitherto 
evinced; “that’s infernally awkward. Why, I 
never spoke to the girl in myjife.” 

“ She can swear to you in any court of justice 
in the world,” added Thomas Eastbell, savagely. 

“It’s awkward,” said Captain Peterson, 
thoughtfully. “ What did you tell me that this 
girl was weak and nervous for, and that she and 
her grandmother 'were only living together? 
Didn’t Mary Holland count for any thing?” 

“I thought that you would be glad to see her 
again,” said his companion, with a short laugh. 

“ lam not afraid of her,” said the other, “ but 
I don’t make out your sister exactly. She’s dan- 
gerous. ” 

“Yes.” 

“She would not stand nice about blowing up 
the whole thing, I can see.” * 

“So can I.” 

“How long does she give you to clear out?” 

“ Till to-morrow night — or the day after that.” 

Captain Peterson lighted another cigar. 

“ What we make up our minds to do, Tom, 
must be done quickly,” he said. 

“ I don’t know what to do,” Thomas Eastbell 
confessed. 

He was a man of small imaginative abilities — 
of no great powers of resource. Naturally dull 
in many things, he had naturally got into a great 
deal of trouble during his nefarious career. Of 
late days he had renewed his acquaintance with 
Captain Peterson, who had had a better educa- 
tion than he, and knew more of the world, and 
Captain Peterson had put him up to a thing or 
two. He had known the captain years ago, and 
he was glad to meet him again, and to talk over 
old times with him. It was Peterson who had 
first told him of the rise in life of his grandmoth- 
er Eastbell, and ascertained for him that Sarah 
was back with the old lady ; and he and Peter- 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


86 

son had taken a great deal of trouble to read and 
study Simon Culvvick’s will, now duly deposited 
in national custody. 

“You don’t know — you never do know, Tom,*’ 
said the captain. 

“Here’s a fortune fooling about — and I so pre- 
cious close to it,” said Tom, mournfully. 

“Does your sister want to pay you out of the 
ship ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ She’s a deep one. She’ll get the old lady to 
make her will in her favor next.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Better that the respected old lady did not 
make a will.” 

“Ah ?” 

“You would come in for a clear half of'every 
thing, then.” 

“ But she will make a will.” 

“ And if your sister were to — ” 

Captain Peterson did not finish his sentence, 
and Tom writhed uneasily in his chair, and puff- 
ed at his dead pipe unconsciously. They did not 
speak again for full half an hour — although they 
drank a little, and glanced askance at each other 
now and then. 

“Tom,” said the captain, suddenly, “you had 
better leave all this in my hands.” 

“Yes, but—” 

“If you don’t leave it to me, I shall cut the 
whole business to-morrow.” 

Tom Eastbell left the management of his af- 
fairs to Captain Peterson forthwith. 

♦ 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A DEEPER PERPLEXITY. 

Sarah Eastbell spent the next hour with her 
grandmother, who had been led to her room dur- 
ing the conference in the great picture-gallery. 
The old lady had left word that she wished to 
see Sarah directly that she was disengaged, and 
our heroine had proceeded up stairs upon receiv- 
ing the message, and found Mrs. Eastbell in bed, 
lying there rigid and sallow, as in the old alms- 
house days. The maid in attendance upon Mrs. 
Eastbell quitted the room as Sarah entered soft- 
ly, but not so softly as to escape the quick ears 
of the grandmother. 

“ Sally ! what a dreadful time you have been !” 
said Mrs. Eastbell. 

“ I have been talking to Tom.” 

“You will have years to talk to him — I may 
be only with you a few more days. It’s awfully 
tiring, this up and down stairs business. Not 
half as comfortable as at St. Oswald's, after all. 
I wish that I had never left the place.” 

“You are tired to-night and despondent, that’s 
all.” 

“ I’ll keep in bed for six months now, if I live 
as long,” said Mrs. Eastbell, almost snappishly. 
“I won’t have any more of this rushing about 
the premises,” she added, fretfully. “ Well, what 
does Tom say ?” 

“ That he shall soon go to sea again.” 

“ He’s a fool if he does.” 

“ I am not certain what is best for him,” said 
Sarah, wearily. “ Shall we speak of him to-mor- 
row ? Will you try and rest now?” 

“ Rest in this house, Sally ! ” cried the old lady, 


ironically; “there isn’t much chance of that, with 
people tearing up and down stairs at all hours, 
and the servants banging shutters and locking 
doors as if we were in a prison. Somebody came 
into my room last night, blundering, but 1 could 
not find out who it was.” 

“Into your room ?” asked Sarah, very anxious- 
ly now. “Where was Hartley?” 

“I packed her off two days ago. She snorted 
in her sleep like a horse. 1 want rest, child, not 
the noise of a steam-engine in my ears.” 

“You are too old to rest alone — you can not 
lock your door even,” said Sarah. 

“ i’m not nervous — I'm not very old,” said the 
grandmother. “ Here’s a bell-pull at the head of 
the bed, if I want any thing.” 

“ I must come back as in the old days, grand- 
mamma, if you send Hartley away. Why 
shouldn’t I have my little crib in one corner of 
this great room, as when you and I were sharing 
life together in St. Oswald's ?” 

“I like to be alone at night — even you would 
disturb me now.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“ You’re mighty anxious about me,” said Mrs. 
Eastbell, fretfully, “and yet you have flounced 
yourself off for three days, and without rhyme or 
reason.” 

“I was anxious about Reuben Culwick — I 
could not rest longer without seeing him.” 

“A nice thing for a young lady, properly ed- 
ucated aud finished off, to confess ! Did you tell 
him so ?” 

“I told him that we were both anxious.” 

“I’m not anxious a bit.” 

“ He is very poor, grandmother,” said Sarah ; 
“ he has been very unlucky in life. I found him 
in a back-room in Drury Lane — a half-starved, 
haggard-looking man, borne down by the disap- 
pointments of his life. This was Reuben Cul- 
wick — in whose house we are — who was once our 
friend when we were poor and low, who saved 
me when I had not power to help myself — whose 
kind words seemed to bring me back from fe- 
ver, when every body thought that I should die. 
This is the man forever foremost in my thoughts. 
Why should I hide it from myself or you ?” * 

She buried her head in the bedclothes, and the 
shriveled hand stole forth and rested on the flow- 
ing mass of raven hair there. 

“Don’t go on so, Sally — I won’t forget him. 

I promised long ago that I would never forget 
Reuben Culwick, didn’t I?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll keep my word. As soon as ever I am 
strong enough, the will we talked about shall be 
prepared.” 

“Next week, perhaps?” said Sarah, suggest- 
ively. 

“ Well, next week— there ! I dare say that I 
shall make one or two alterations, ” said the old 
lady, “not forgetting you and Tom.” 

“ Yes, but—” 

Sarah paused, for the subject was a delicate 
one, and there was danger in details. The world 
was far from clear before her — she could not guess 
how the story of her life would end— what would 
become of her, or Tom, or Reuben Culwick yet. 
For years she had deceived this poor old blind 
woman as to Tom’s character, and here was the 
retribution that had sprung from her untruthful- 
ness. She had tried to save the heart-ache from 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


one withered life, in her own wild fashion, and it 
had come to her instead. Why, Reuben Culwick 
had told her that she did not speak the truth on 
the second day of her acquaintance with him ! 

“ May I read to you to-night ?” she asked, sud- 
denly. ’ 

‘ ‘I am tired, Sally, and can not listen. I don’t 

life” 1 haVe been a V61y bad womau in m . v 
“ No, no— why do you say that ?” 


“ ^ es- — but not in the way I mean.” 

I was afraid of him, but I loved him very 
deeply— I am sure of that. To keep away from 
him and not to know how he was living has been 
a Jong, long torture to me. If I had only known 
that he had been poor and in trouble twelve 
months ago! — if I had not thought that he was 
happy and contented, and could wait his time!” 
“ This is the craziest kind of love f ever heard 



“ I don’t know — it has just occurred to me. 
And Sallv?” 

“Yes.” 

“I am sorry that you think too much of him 
who is too proud to come here — this will end by 
i your falling in love with a man who will never 
care for you.” 

“ My dear grandmother,” said Sarah Eastbell, 
in a whisper, “I loved that man when he came 
back to Worcester, and was kind to you.” 


“Ah, perhaps it is,” said Sarah, “but you un- 
derstand now whv I ran awav from you ?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you forgive me for going?” 

“ Well — yes ; I can’t help forgiving you. You 
know that.” 

“Now try and rest. We shall have a great 
deal to talk about to-morrow.” 

“You will come in early ?” 

“Yes.” 





88 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“Good-night, Sally.” 

The granddaughter stooped and kissed her af- 
fectionately, and the old woman murmured : 

“ There’s no going away again, girl ?” 

“Never again,” answered Sarah. “Good- 
night.” 

“Good-night.” 

Sarah Eastbell passed from the room, and then 
stood reflecting on the sheep-skin mat outside 
the door. A woman passing in the distance at- 
tracted her attention, and seemed to shape her 
motives, for she beckoned to her cautiously, and 
even went a few steps toward her. 

“You should not have 'left your mistress’s 
room while I was away,” Sarah said, reproach- 
fully; “she is too old to be left.” 

“ She would not allow me to remain, ma’am.” 

“ Watch here till I return, and see that no one 
disturbs my grandmother by passing noisily along 
the corridor.” 

“Is she not well to-night?” 

“ She is fatigued.”. 

Sarah Eastbell went thoughtfully down stairs, 
pausing now and then to consider the new posi- 
tion of affairs. Had she been successful, or had 
she failed ? Would her brother and his com- 
panion go away in peace, heavily bribed to de- 
part, or would Tom refuse at the eleventh hour 
to quit a relative to whom he was as closely al- 
lied as she was, and from whose death he had a 
right to anticipate as much advantage ? From 
her death ! O poor Grandmother Eastbell, if you 
were to die soon, how glad that man would be, and 
what a difference it would make to many lives! 

Sarah passed into the garden. She was hot 
and feverish, and the night was close. In the 
cool, fresh air she might be able to shape out a 
better, clearer course, if the current of events 
should turn against her and her projects for 
Tom’s departure from Sedge Hill. She had 
grown very much afraid of him of late days ; 
she had lost every atom of confidence ; and the 
man whom he had brought into the house had 
been a well-known character in Potter’s Court, for 
whom the police had made inquiries during her 
short stay there. A man, too, of some attain- 
ments, of talents misplaced, and a mind directed 
to evil ; who spoke more than one language, she 
remembered to have heard, and who kept his 
brothers, rough and desperate characters as they 
were, in strong subjection to his will. It was 
this man whom she feared more than her weak 
brother — although she had disguised her sense 
of alarm from him. At Sedge Hill there was no 
safety yet. There were only three weak women 
in the house, againsj; two men who had taken 
possession of the place, and who belonged to a 
dark and awful world, looming beyond all honest 
life. 

She had left the house some hundred yards, 
when footsteps on the gravel-path arrested her 
attention, and checked her further progress. 
They were coming slowly toward her, and she 
shrank at once into the shadow of the trees 
with the instinct to be unperceived and watchful. 
Trouble had come quickly in her way, and she 
must fight against it as best she might. 

There were two persons advancing in her di- 
rection. Who could they be, at that hour of the 
night, but Thomas Eastbell and Peterson, plot- 
ting together against the peace of Sedge Hill? 
They were soon close upon her ; they could have 


heard her deep breathing had they listened ; but 
they were deep in conversation, and unmindful 
of a watcher. The path was broad and white, 
and their figures were easily distinguishable as 
they passed on toward the house, striking at 
Sarah Eastbell’s heart with a new surprise and 
an awful sense of treachery. They were those 
of Captain Peterson and Mary Holland ! — the 
former talking in a low and energetic manner, 
and with no small degree of gesticulation ; the 
other listening with her gaze directed to the 
ground, and with her hands clasped — Sarah could 
see them plainly — on the bosom of her dress. 
There was a light gauze scarf on Mary Holland’s 
head, and the ends fluttered in the night breeze 
as she passed by. There was not a word which 
Sarah could catch at — it was a new phase of 
mystery for which she was not prepared, which 
seemed to place her very much alone in the world 
after the discovery. 

When they were in advance of her, Sarah 
stole from her hiding-place and proceeded in 
their direction, keeping, to the shadow of the 
trees. She paused before entering upon the 
broad and open space of ground in front of the 
house where they were standing, and where Cap- 
tain Peterson was still debating with the silent 
woman still looking on the ground. She watched 
them separate without a glance toward each oth- 
er, the man entering the picture-gallery through 
the bay-window, and Mary Holland proceeding 
to the French window of the drawing-room, open- 
ing it, and passing through. 

Sarah followed her, still clinging to the shad- 
ow, and making a wide circuit so that watchful 
eyes from the picture-gallery should not observe 
her. She reached the drawing-room, to find the 
blinds drawn before the windows, and the win- 
dows closed. As she paused to consider her next 
step the shadow of Mary Holland was thrown 
upon the blind — a strange, appealing phantom, 
with its hands upraised as if in supplication. 

Sarah's hand shook the window-frame. There 
was another pause, and then the blind was snatch- 
ed hastily aside, and Mary’s face was pressed 
against the inner side of the glass. 

“Who’s there?” .. I 

“Let me in. It is I — Sarah,” replied our her- 
oine. Mavy Holland unfastened the window and 
admitted her. 

Both women looked keenly at each other— and 
both were very pale. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A LATE VISITOR. 

Mary Holland walked slowly from the win- 
dow, which she had unlocked to admit Sarah 
Eastbell, and sat down in the arm-chair by the 
fire. It was not till Sarah was standing on the 
hearth-rug, and peering closely, even suspicious- 
ly, into her face that Mary Holland looked up 
and met her gaze with steadfastness. She was 
paler than usual, that was all ; the eyes were 
clear and bright, and did not flinch from the 
dark dilating pupils bent upon her. 

There was a painful silence, each young wom- 
an waiting for the other to speak, and each on 
guard. 

It was Mary Holland who began at last. 




SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 

q “ I bad no . idea that y°« were in the garden, 

Smah she said, slowly. “Were you not afraid 

0f t C t a \ir ling . C0 d at thls late hour of the night?” 

VVeren t you?” was the quick rejoinder. 

rP^t lah Ea ® tb ®. U wa ® as read y as ever with her 
replies ; a fashionable style of education had 
come too late in the day, and there was an out- 
spokenness, even an abruptness, in her discourse, 
that jarred upon minds of an extra degree of rel 
nnement. Sarah’s reply certainly jarred, on this 
occasion, on the nerves of Miss Holland, who 
shmnk a little. Sarah was excited, and eager 

plexing her° Ugh ^ laSt m y ster y which was per- 

“I wanted fresh air,” said Mary, speaking slow- 
iy. 1 had been in attendance upon your grand- 
mother all day, and she has been more than or- 
dinarily exacting. But you have been traveling 
and were fatigued. ” 

“I was fatigued, ’’said Sarah Eastbell, stand- 
ing with one hand resting on the mantel-piece, 
and still looking down upon her companion, 
until I reached this house and found it full of 
change— and you changed with all the rest. ” 

“I have not changed in any one degree,” said 
Mary Holland, clasping her hands suddenly to- 
gether. “Iam the same woman that I have ever 
been. 

. V M y friend— and hers ?” said Sarah, mean- 
ingly. 

Yes, answered Mary ; and she met again the 
steady gaze of her inquirer. It was a pale, pen- 
sive face, with a clear outlook from the full gray 
eves, and one could scarcely doubt the truth upon 
it even then. 

“ But—” began Sarah, hesitatingly, when the 
other interrupted her. 

“ But I am a young woman with more secrets 
than one upon my mind, and they have come 
more closely to me of late days.” 

‘‘And now?” 

“ And now I am more helpless than I thought 
I was,” she said. 

Sarah Eastbell drew a chair toward her, and 
sat down by the side of Mary Holland. 

“ Mary, ” she said, techily, ‘ ‘ I hate people with 
secrets, and there is enough mystery about this 
life without your adding to it. Will you trust 
me, or will you not ?” 

“ My child, I am five or six years older than 
you.” 

“ What has that to do with it ?” 

“Why, I have scarcely learned to trust my- 
self yet ! When I have full confidence in Mary 
Holland, I may put faith — implicit faith — in Sa- 
rah Eastbell,” she said, in those old crisp tones of 
voice that had given character to her before this ; 

“ but loving and respecting her genuine nature as 
I do, still I must keep my troubles to myself.” 

“ You have troubles ?” said Sarah, wondering- 
ly. “ Until to-night I have thought you a happy 
little woman in your way. ” 

“ I was only a clever actress,” was the sad an- 
swer, “and I have borne my cares well, that’s 
all. Reuben’s mother found me out long ago !” 

“ Ha ! that reminds me.” 

Sarah did not say of what Miss Holland’s 
strange remark had reminded her, but her face 
shadowed more, and there was a graver look upon 
it after that. 

“You have nothing to tell me, then?” she cried, 
sharply. 


89 


“Not yet.” 

“Nothing to ask me?” 

“ Only this,” said Mary, looking up again : “I 
will ask for the old confidence, which appears to 
be sinking away without anv power of mine to 
stop it. These are strange times, and I must be 
strange with them, God knows. Bear with me, 

I Sarah Eastbell. ’ 

“I am alone in this house, where there are 
many enemies now,” said Sarah. “Why should 
I trust you any longer ?” 

“ Why, indeed ! ” 

You know what my brother is — vou can 
guess what his companion is likely to be?” 
“Perfectly.” 

And yet you and that man were whispering 
together in the gardens for half an hour to- 
night. 

“You were watching?” 

“I chanced upon you by accident. I was 
amazed. 

“Did you listen ?” 

“No.” 

“Iam glad of that,” said Mary Holland, “ al- 
though you would have heard some good of your- 
self, for all that the rule says. We spoke of you 
more than once.” J 

“ You two are soon friends,” said Sarah, caus- 
tically. Has Captain Peterson fallen in love 
with you ?” 

“On the contrary, I think Captain Peterson 
detests me very cordially.” 

“You know that he is a villain, then !— that 
two years ago he was in league with coiners — 
that I knew him by sight in Potter’s Court— 
that his presence here means danger to honest 
people.” 

“ Honest people can surely take care of them- 
selves against such petty knavery as his and 
his friend s,” said Mary, almost contemptuously. 
“I have warned him that we are on our guard 
in this house.” 

“ They must leave here. I have told them so.” 
“Yes, I know, ’’replied Mary Holland ; “but 
will they go ?” 

“Will they defy me and remain?” was the 
rejoinder. 

“For a while, perhaps— until they are weary 
of a life that is unsuited to them, or until vour 
grandmother knows the truth of your brother’s 
rascality, with which she should have been ac- 
quainted long since.” 

“I could not see this day; I wanted to keep 
her heart light to the last,” murmured Sarah ; 
“and now my falsehood turns upon myself, and 
puts that poor weak life in danger too. For 
they would be glad of her death,” she said, in an 
excited whisper; “I read it in their faces. I 
can not trust them — or you. I am alone now — 
awfully alone !” 

Mary Holland rose and stood beside her. Her 
hand fell upon Sarah Eastbell’s arm, and once 
more the clear look in the eyes seemed bevond 
all deceit. 

“Sarah, leave me with my miserable little se- 
cret for a while — it will be explained sooner than 
you think, although I dare not say a word now, 
for all our sakes. Have I been so false a friend 
that you can not trust me in a time of common 
peril ?” 

Sarah answered again, 

“If I could understand— if— Why did you 


90 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


write to Reuben Culwick?” she said, very sud- 
denly and sharply; “why did you let me go to 
London in ignorance of his address ?” 

“ It was his wish that you should not see him 
at his worst, T knew,” she said, answering the 
latter question first; “ and I wrote to him because 
those two men had arrived here.” 

“And you were afraid of them?” 

“Scarcely,” she replied, in a low voice; “for 
I was on my guard, and had put others on guard.” 

“ Reuben had not opened your letter.” 

“That was unfortunate.” 

“ He will come himself now,” said Sarah, ea- 
gerly, “if he thinks we are not safe here.” 

“We are quite safe, I think,” replied Mary; 
“still I hope that he will come.” 

“And yet he has thought of us so little,” said 
Sarah, “ he has kept away so long, we have all 
died away so surely from his interest, that — ” 

Sarah stopped, and her hands were pressed 
quickly to her breast to still its sudden leaping, 
while Mary Holland clasped the other’s arm, as 
a sudden knocking at the outer door, followed by 
a ringing of the bell, announced‘a late visitor to 
Sedge Hill. 

“Can it be?” both young women whispered, 
as they went across the drawing-room toward 
the marble-checkered hall, friends again in their 
suspense, and with the new distrust forgotten for 
a time. In the hall stood a servant with a hand 
upon the door, and in the corridor were Thomas 
Eastbell and Captain Peterson, the former with 
a waxen cast of countenance, like a man seized 
with a strange fear. 

The chain before the door was lowered, the 
door was opened, and a tall man came with quick 
strides into his father’s house. 

“ He has come! oh, he has come!” cried Sa- 
rah Eastbell, joyfully, and forgetting all sense of 
decorum in her delight at seeing him — forgetting 
that he was only her second cousin ! — she ran to- 
ward him and cast her arms about his neck, to his 
surprise, and in her warmth of welcome. Here 
was one friend at least whom she could trust ! 

“ I am so glad that you have come !” she cried ; 
then she shrank away from his arms in her second 
impulse, and went with crimson-dyed cheeks to 
Mary Holland’s side again. He smiled — and it 
was the old bright look gleaming from his full 
brown eyes. The welcome pleased him — it was 
so strange a contrast to his last reception in that 
house. 

• 

CHAPTER X. 

THE WELCOME BACK. 

The wondering, scowling faces in the shadow 
of the corridor receded slowly, and then the door 
of the picture-gallery was closed, as though Reu- 
ben Culwick’s presence could not be tolerated at 
that juncture. Reuben glanced along the corri- 
dor, and then turned to Mary Holland. 

“They are in the gallery?” he inquired. 

“ Yes,” was the reply. 

“And the old lady is asleep, and well watch- 
ed?” 

“ Yes,” said Mary Holland again. 

“ You should have telegraphed to me, and not 
have lost time by the post,” he said. 

“ I dared not leave the house, and there was no 
one whom I cared to intrust with a message.” 


Sarah looked from one to the other curiously, 
and Reuben Culwick smiled. 

“ See what a couple of conspirators we are, 
Sarah,” he said. “ But the fact is, your brother 
Tom and his acquaintances have been disturbing 
mv mind of late davs. I have feared that this 
day would come, and that you might be power- 
less and need help — although Tom may be a very 
good fellow when one is thoroughly acquainted 
with him.” 

“You know what he is,” said Sarah, very 
moodily. 

“ Hence, one day,” he continued, “I wrote in 
confidence to Miss Holland, and asked her to 
warn me when a crisis of this kind occurred — 
which it has, you see.” 

“Why could you not trust me?” asked his 
second cousin, fretfully. 

“You were Tom’s sister, and Tom’s sister’s 
feelings had to be respected. Besides,” he add- 
ed, “I was afraid of you.” 

“Afraid! ’’echoed Sarah Eastbell. “Of what?” 

“Of your turning up in my Drury Lane den, 
and offering me your compassion, and aggrava- 
ting me by your assistance. I was a sour-tem- 
pered beast, Sarah, and afraid of the softening 
influence of second-cousinism.” 

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Culwick,” said 
Sarah, very coldly now; “but I never did, for 
the matter of that. You are suspicious of me — 
that’s all I perceive at present.” 

“Yes, after all, Miss Eastbell,” he added, as 
he took up very quickly her own formal style 
of address, “I was uncommonly suspicious of 
you.” 

“I knew it !” cried Sarah, as they went slow- 
ly toward the drawing-room. 

Before the door was reached his hand was 
passed through her arm in a kindly fashion 
which was new, and which amazed her. 

“I was suspicious of my own misanthropy, 
and knew that a word of yours — and of no one 
else’s — could change me back to my old self,” 
he said, in a voice that thrilled her. “I felt 
that if you were grateful, unforgetful, unspoiled 
by this prosperity, I should be very glad ; and al- 
though my theory was that you must be infallibly 
ungrateful, I had a faint idea that you might up- 
set it, being an odd young woman in your way. 
Do you understand me any better now ?” 

“ Not a bit,” was the candid, inelegant avow- 
al ; but she was looking down at the marble 
pavement, and twisting her fingers together 
nervously as she walked on by his side. 

“That’s another story,” said Reuben, with a 
little laugh. “ What a bad habit it is of yours, 
Sarah ! When will you grow out of it ?” 

“How can I tell what you mean, when you 
go on in this way ?” she murmured, in self-de- 
fense. 

“ Well, I mean that your visit to me this morn- 
ing did me a great deal of good,” he condescend- 
ed 10 explain still further — “assured me that 
you were a genuine young woman, and that I 
was an old fool ! that you understood the world, 
and I didn’t. And without Miss Holland’s dan- 
ger signal I should have come in good time to 
Sedge Hill.” 

“Would you?” she cried, half laughing and 
half crying now. 

“ Ah ! — wouldn’t I !” was the rejoinder. 

“ Miss Eastbell hardly knows what or in whom 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


to believe, Mr. Culwick,” said Mary Holland, at 
this juncture, “and her friends and enemies are 
hopelessly intermixed. ” 

“I think that you must be my friend,” said 
Sarah, extending her hand to her at once. “ For- 
P'jjroe if I have been hard to-night.” 

U n lh f r - e is nothin g to forgive,” said Mary 
Holland in reply, “and you had a right to sus- 


man between them paused and looked at each 
other. Sarah Eastbell whispered, 

“ Grandmother !” 

“ Yes, it is I,” answered Reuben. 

“ Gome up stairs directly, and don’t bring any 
body with you ; ” and then the head of Mrs. East- 
bell appeared over the first line of balusters in the 
well-staircase. 

“Oh, grandmother, go in !” cried Sarah. 



“May I tell Cousin Reuben that — ” 

Sarah paused, and waited for Mary Holland’s 
reply. 

“ No, not yet,” answered Mary. 

Her hand was on the drawing-room door, 
when a shrill voice, unmistakable, and startling 
at that hour, echoed through the house. 

“Reuben Culwick, is that you?” 

The two young women and the big bearded 


“ Don’t be in a hurry, child,” said Mrs. East- 
bell. “I’m well wrapped up, and I can’t sleep 
to-night. That s not very surprising, consider- 
ing what a row every one has been making, and 
how Reuben has been banging at the door. It 
is Reuben ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Come to me, then. I have much to say,” 
she said ; and then the blind face was withdrawn 


92 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


from the hand-rail over which it had craned, and 
the maid on watch led her carefully back to her 
room. 

“Go to her,” said Sarah, anxiously. “ She 
would make amends for being in your father’s 
house. Don’t thwart her.” 

“But to-morrow — ” 

‘ ‘ To-morrow may be too late. ” 

Reuben Culwick did not answer, hut he went 
Slowly up the stairs at his second cousin’s bid- 
ding. 

CHAPTER XI. 
reuben’s idea. 

When Reuben Culwick had reached the land- 
ing-stage from which the head of his old aunt 
had appeared, he came to a full stop, in his sur- 
prise at discovering that Second- cousin Sarah 
was following him. 

“ You are coming with me?” he asked. 

She nodded, but did not reply. 

“If you remember, vour grandmother said, 
‘Alone.’” 

“I know she did,” replied Sarah, very firmly, 
“ but I am not going to trust you with her.” 

“Indeed!” said Reuben, taken aback by her 
plain speaking; “then you are suspicious of me 
now. ” 

“Yes, it’s my turn.” 

“ So it is. Come along, and tell the old lady 
that you are not going to stand any more of my 
nonsense.” 

“ No,” answered Sarah, in an excited whisper, 
“ she must not know that I am in the room. 
She is blind, and I will be a silent witness, if you 
will only be fair to yourself.” 

“ And otherwise?” asked Reuben. 

“ It will become my duty to interfere.” 

“Pray explain, Sarah.” 

“ I think that my grandmother is about to ask 
you to make her will — she has not been easy in 
her mind of late days, and you have come here 
opportunely. She would do you justice, and you 
shall not thwart her if I can help it.” 

“Meaning that — ” 

“ Reuben !” called forth the shrill voice again, 
impatiently, and Sarah motioned him to proceed, 
and followed softly in his footsteps. 

“This is an odd position,” he muttered, glam 
cing over his shoulder at her ; but she did not re- 
ply, save by a look of much entreaty. The girl 
whom Miss Holland had placed on guard at the 
door made way for them to pass, but the blind 
woman, acute as was her power of hearing, was 
unaware of the presence of her granddaughter, 
who took her stand in the background, a watch- 
ful, jealous sentinel. 

“ So then you are here at last, young fellow — 
you have swallowed your pride, and come to see 
me,” were the first words of Mrs. Eastbell from 
the bed into which she had been assisted, and be- 
fore which he sat down. 

“ I have swallowed my pride, aunt, and come 
to see you, ” he said, in her own words. 

“ Lucky for you,” she answered, “ for though 
I didn’t tell Sally so, I was not going to be slight- 
ed by a bit of a boy like you.” 

“Decidedly not,” answered Reuben, smiling 
across at Sarah, who was all anxiety, and did not 
return his smile. 


The door was closed, and they were together 
in secret confidence, Reuben and his aunt, with 
his second cousin like a Fate, shadowy and still 
and vigilant. There was a small table drawn 
close to the bed -head, with writing materials 
upon it, and a little reading-lamp. Sarah was 
right. At a strange hour, and in a strange fash- 
ion which his coming had suggested, the old wom- 
an lying there had thought of her last duty to the 
living, and was now in eager haste to complete it. 

“ You have not shaken hands with me, Reu- 
ben,” she said, and the shriveled hand stole forth 
with the old difficulty from the bed, and he took 
it in his own, and felt it cling to his and detain it. 

“ If I have robbed you of your birthright, Reu- 
ben — and Sally says I have — I hope you bear me 
no ill-will.” 

“ Heaven forbid!” was the quick answer. 

“Your father’s money has not done me any 
good — and this big, cold place is as dark and dull 
and empty as the old almshouse was, only not so 
warm, and Sally not always at my side now. 
Sally never slighted me at St. Oswald’s, mind 
you, that's the curious part of it.” 

“Sally is one of the most unselfish of women, 
aunt.” 

“Yes, yes, I think so,” answered Mrs. East- 
bell, as she relinquished our hero’s hand, “and 
it is she that bothers me.” 

“ How’s that?” 

“ I don’t see what is to become of her exactly, 
when I am not here to look after her,” said the 
blind woman, quaintly. “ I’m as unsettled about 
her as I was when you came to me at Worcester, 
for she’s an unsettled kind of child, and does 
strange things. I didn’t want her to meet you, 
but she would run away at last. ” 

“But—” 

“ But I am not going to keep awake all night 
talking at this rate,” said Mrs. Eastbell; “be- 
tween the lot of you, I have lost a heap of my 
natural rest already.” 

“Shall we defer further conversation till to- 
morrow ?” 

“No, we sha’n’t,” was the decisive answer. 

‘ ‘ Proceed, aunt,” said Reuben Culwick. ‘ ‘ What 
are your wishes ?” 

“ You know my grandson Tom has come to 
see me ?” 

“Oh yes.” 

“ I have Tom to think of too. He’s a good 
lad.” 

“Is he?” was the quiet rejoinder. 

“ He hasn’t forgotten me — I hate people to 
forget me, Reuben.” 

“No one cares to be forgotten,” said her neph- 
ew, sententiously. 

“ Still, Sally’s right, and neither she nor I — 
nor Tom, for that matter — has any business with 
your father’s money. I didn’t see it quite so 
clearly a little while ago — half an hour since — as 
I do now.” 

“But—” 

“There you go! ’’said the old woman, queru- 
lously. “What’s the use of interrupting people 
while they are talking! When I got rich, Reu- 
ben, I grew greedy, somehow — as if riches, after 
all, were any good to me! Wasn’t I a happy 
woman at St. Oswald’s ?” 

“Yes.” 

“I haven’t been happy since then. When my 
foolish brother left me money, he left me trouble 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


too,” she said, “and I was too old for trouble. 
Now about my Sally — a willful girl enough, but 
true as steel, Reuben.” 

“What of her?” said Reuben, looking across 
at Sarah, who sat with her arms crossed, and her 
face bent very low, like a woman asleep. 

‘ ‘ I think that I can trust you to see after 
my family, if I leave you all my money, as she 
wishes.” 

“Ws'sffe wishes !” echoed Reuben. 

^ “You are not likely to turn your back upon 
Sarah or Tom, because it is Sarah’s wish that I 
give up every penny of my own free-will.” 

“Sarah is rash,” muttered Reuben Cuhvick, 
“very rash.” 

“I think it is overdoing it myself,” said the 
old lady, very calmly, “ but what peace shall I 
have until it’s done ? Has my maid put pens 
and ink and paper on that table ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You are a scholar — write out my will, Reu- 
ben, in half a dozen lines.” 

“I am not a lawyer,” said Reuben, moodily, 
almost rebelliously. 

“Put it all down to yourself — freehold, lease- 
hold. money, pictures, plate — the old woman gives 
it all.” 

“At her granddaughter’s wish?” 

“ And at her own. In common fairness, Reu, 
to my dead brother’s son. There, write, and let 
me sign it.” 

Reuben looked across at Sarah again. From 
the shadowy background she made a gesture of 
assent, earnest, imperative, and supplicatory. 

“ And this strange idea is my second cousin’s?” 
Reuben said, still looking at her. “ She trusts 
me so much, knowing so little of me, in a foggy 
dream of restitution. She thinks of my wrongs 
at a time when I am learning to forget them. 
She accepts dependence, she risks poverty and 
privation, and puts herself entirely in my power.” 

“ Entirely,” replied the old woman. “ Isn’t it 
safe ?” 

“ It is romance, not reality. A wild folly, and 
not the common prudence that should regulate 
all lives. I will have nothing to do with it.” 

Sarah Eastbell stood up, and came with two 
silent steps nearer to her cousin. The old lady 
struggled to her side, and seemed trying hard to 
open her sealed lids. 

“You won’t have the money?” she said, in a 
high kev. 

“No!” 

“How am I to get to heaven if you don’t? 
Sally says that I haven’t a chance if I don’t act 
right by you,” whimpered Mrs. Eastbell. 

“ Sally is only frightening you, aunt,” said Reu- 
ben, “and Sally is a weak little woman who is 
terribly ignorant of justice, and who will see this 
in a better light some day.” 

Sally shook her little fist at him in her anger 
at his obstinacy. 

“ He who writes a will in which he is interest- 
ed, and by which he is to profit, does it at his own 
risk — a very great one in the eyes of the law, 
aunt,” continued Reuben, “and after all the doc- 
ument may not be worth the paper on which it is 
written. Hence your will would get into Chan- 
cery, Mrs. Eastbell, depend upon it.” 

“Then what is to be done?” 

“I’ll give you my idea,” replied Reuben Cul- 
wick, “if you’ll keep quiet for five minutes.” 


“I don’t think much of your ideas,” said Mrs. 
Eastbell, candidly, “ but go on.” 

Reuben took up a pen, dipped it into the ink, 
and commenced writing very rapidly. The old 
woman lay back and listened to the scratching 
of his pen upon the paper, and Sarah Eastbell, 
intensely curious, advanced on tiptoe toward him, 
and regarded him defiantly as he curved his hand 
before his work and looked hard at her, with his 
mouth twitching at the corners, as if his old ag- 
gravating smile were difficult to repress. 

When he had finished writing, he said, 

“Are you asleep, aunt?” 

“ I am as wide awake as you are,” was the re- 
ply. “ Have you done it ?” 

“Yes — now listen,” he said. “ I, Sarah East- 
bell, of Sedge Hill, in the county of Worcester- 
shire, relict of — ” 

“ Never mind that rubbish,” interrupted Mrs. 
Eastbell. “What does it mean when you have 
got through it all ?” 

“This,” replied her nephew, looking at his 
second cousin again, “that you leave all your 
property to your granddaughter Sarah.” 

“No, no!” cried Sarah, taken off her guard, 
and coming into the foreground, rebellious and 
angry; “I will not have this jugglery, grand- 
mother, I will not have this done!” 

“ Good gracious !” cried the old lady, “ are you 
here too? Why don’t you shriek a little loud- 
er, or fire a blunderbuss off in my ears, or some- 
thing, Sally ? Of all the aggravating people in 
the world, I think you two are the worst, playing 
at shuttlecock with my money, and not letting 
me have a word to say about it for myself. I’ll 
die without a will now — see if I don’t ! And 
here goes, too !” 

Mrs. Eastbell flopped wildly over in bed, and 
turned her back upon them. 

“ See what your obstinacy has done !” said Sa- 
rah, angrily, to her cousin. 

“One moment,” said Reuben; “this is an idea, , 
Mrs. Eastbell, by which a large amount of legacy 
duty is saved. You can trust Sarah — so can I.” 

“Yes, but how’s it to end?” muttered Mrs. 
Eastbell. 

“Only in one way, and that I submit to your 
kind consideration. Aunt,” he said, in an ear- 
nest tone, “ before I leave Sedge Hill, I shall ask 
your permission to pay my addresses to my sec- 
ond-cousin Sarah. I am not worthy of her — she 
knows that ! — but I have learned to love her very 
much within the last four-and-twenty hours.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

DANGER. 

This was Reuben Cul wick’s covp de theatre. 
Mrs. Eastbell rolled herself slowly over in bed 
toward the speaker again, and her grandchild 
sank into the nearest chair, and put two trem- 
bling hands before her face. 

There was a long silence before Mrs. Eastbell 
said, in a husky voice, 

“You don’t mean to say, Reuben, that you 
have been thinking of my Sally ?” 

“Yes, I have,” was the quiet reply. 

“That would make this business very straight 
and square,” said the old lady; “and as Sally’s 
fond of you — ” 


94 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“Oh, grandmamma! I never said so,” mur- 
mured Sarah Eastbell, without lowering her hands 
from her face. 

‘ 4 What a horrible story-teller you are ! ” cried 
her grandmother. 

“That is, I never said — 

And then Reuben’s second cousin was silent, 
fearful of what her grandmother would reply, 
and how much her grandmother had remem- 


have you, it ends the bother of the money in a 
proper sort of way.” 

“ Suppose I talk to Sarah presentlv about 
this?” 

“Yes, yes,” said the old woman, impatiently, 
“and get on with the will; I don’t feel easy till 
I have signed it now.” 

“All your money to Sarah Eastbell, it being 
privately understood that Sarah is not to forget 



bered of her late confession of faith in Reuben 
Culwick. 

“ It is a mercenary match,” said Reuben ; “ I 
offer myself, without a penny in the world, to a 
rich young heiress, who could do much better for 
herself, and who is far above me in every re- 
spect — who is even too young for me, consider- 
ing what an old fogy I have grown of late days. ” 

“You’re no great catch formally, certainly,” 
observed Mrs. Eastbell ; “ but if Sally says she’ll 


her brother Tom, or — her second-cousin Reu- 
ben,” said our hero, taking up the pen. 

“Yes, Tom and you can both trust Sarah,” 
Mrs. Eastbell replied. 

Sarah Eastbell was even now scarcely satisfied 
with the drawing up of the will in her favor. It 
was not what she had wished. Had she been 
less confused, less happy, she might have sug- 
gested fresh additions and conditions ; but she 
stood on the threshold of a new world, with the 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


man who was the hero of her life in the fore- 
ground of its brightness. She seemed to hesi- 
tate as her hands were lowered from her face, 
and Reuben said, meaningly, 

“And Sarah Eastbell can trust me, I hope?” 

“ Yes,” she answered to this appeal, “ but the 
will should say—” 

“ The will must say neither more nor less than 
that you are sole legatee. I will not have my 
name in connection with this monev,” he said, 
very firmly ; “ and I prefer,” he added, in a dif- 
ferent and softer tone, “to be wholly at the 
mercy of my second cousin.” 

Sarah said no more in argument. If there were 
a man to be trusted in the world, it was Reuben 
Culwick ; or if there were a man less likely to be 
moved from his position, it was surely he also. 
After his own fashion he had offered a solution 
to the enigma of the future, and she for one could 
not oppose it. It evinced a perfect faith in her- 
self — it asked for faith in him — and she was very 
happy. She had forgotten her brother Tom and 
Captain Peterson in the new whirl of ideas that 
had come to her ; her suspicions of Mary Hol- 
land might have lain months back instead of 
two hours for the trouble that they gave her. 
Reuben was at Sedge Hill, and there was noth- 
ing to fear ! She slipped quietly from the room, 
leaving Reuben with her grandmother — first sign 
| of that faith in him which he seemed to exact — 
and went down stairs into the drawing-room, to 
collect her sober thoughts together. 

It was a “deep think,” upon which no one 
quickly intruded. Mary Holland was not visi- 
ble, and the two men who had stolen upon the 
peace of Sedge Hill were still in the picture-gal- 
lery, wondering, she thought, what Reuben Cul- 
wick’s presence portended, and planning against 
its consequences. 

She took her place before the fire, fast dying 
out with neglect, and thought of the end of all 
anxiety and uncertainty, and of the beginning 
of her happiness, with Reuben’s love growing 
stronger every day, and Reuben’s troubles at an 
end forever. She was an unselfish girl, who 
valued money very little, and yet she thought 
that Reuben’s peace of mind must come with the 
restoration of his father’s wealth to him. She 
would accompany that wealth — strangest and 
i most marvelous incident of all her life of changes, 
that this man who had saved her should open his 
heart toward her, and place her- first and fore- 
most there ! In her flush of happiness, born of 
that certainty, she strove oddly enough to find a 
doubt or two wherewith to dash down her girlish 
vanity. He was going to marry her out of grati- 
tude — to return unselfishness for unselfishness — 
reading thoroughly her heart, which she had not 
taken very great pains to disguise, and over 
which it had not been always possible to draw 
the veil. She was not fit for him ; he was too 
good and clever for her ; only two years ago she 
was a poor waif, with a reward offered for her, 
placarded on the walls of Worcester; only of 
late days had she stepped into the light, and 
learned to be a lady, and Avhile acquiring that 
knowledge, Reuben Culwick, her preserver, had 
been neglected by them all. Her time for repa- 
ration had arrived late in the day, but it should 
be complete and lasting. All that love and 
money could do — and what wonders can they 
not perform ? — should be devoted to the life of 


her second cousin. This was the end of every 
trouble, and Heaven be praised for it! 

She had gone deeper than this into thought 
before the prudent man above-stairs had finished 
the last will and testament of Sarah Eastbell, 
relict of James Eastbell, late of Worcester, of no 
calling in particular. She had forgotten all dan- 
ger in her love-dream, but she awoke suddenly 
to it at finding a figure standing at her elbow, 
wan and ghost-like, a something from the other 
world, she verily believed, in her first surprise and 
horror. Two years ago this being had lived — 
only to-night she had heard that she was dead — 
and she sprang up and went back with hands 
spread out against the wall, too terrified to 
scream. 

“ Hush ! don’t make a row — don’t you know 
me ?” croaked the haggard figure, huskily. 

“ Sophy— Tom’s wife !” ejaculated Sarah East- 
bell. 

“ Yes — but not dead yet — oh dear, no — black 
as Tom’s coat is!” she whispered back. 

Sarah glanced at her. She had not yet re- 
covered from the shock, and the woman was 
terribly forlorn and ragged, with her death’s- 
head gleaming from a battered black straw bon- 
net. 

“ How did you obtain admittance to the 
house ?” 

“Through that window — it was unfastened.” 

“You have come in search of Tom ?” 

“No, no — to warn you of a danger — of an 
awful danger, as I live, Sally, to you and your 
grandmother !” 

“ Great Heaven ! what is it?” 

“ I can’t tell you here — I daren’t be seen by 
Tom,” she whispered still; “he would kill me 
if he found me at his heels. Outside in the gar- 
den I can breathe a bit.” 

“ I will come with you.” 

Sarah followed Mrs. Eastbell, who walked 
very feebly, into the garden, where a little while 
ago she had seen Miss Holland and Captain Pe- 
terson together. Was this a further installment 
of the mystery about her ? — or in the shadows 
of the night would she approach closer to the 
truth ? In thinking of Reuben Culwick, and 
forgetting every thing else, what valuable time 
might she not have lost ?— she who should have 
been watchful at all hazards of the men who 
she knew were dangerous. 

Thus from one mystery to another passed Sec- 
ond-cousin Sarah. 

•» 

CHAPTER XIII. 

SARAH IS MISSED. 

The will of Sarah Eastbell was completed, and 
Hartley, the maid, with a second servant, was 
introduced into the room to witness the old 
lady’s effort at a signature, made under consid- 
erable difficulty, with Reuben supporting her and 
guiding her hand across the paper. Reuben 
Culwick was particularly careful that there should 
be no mistake, and no ground for future objec- 
tion to the will, for he read every line aloud to 
hey in the presence of the witnesses, who saw 
afterward that the testament tallied with the 
text. Mrs. Eastbell was blind, and there must 
be no doubt in any one’s mind that she had 


96 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


signed a document setting forth her own espe- 
cial wishes. What those wishes were might 
possibly be/ bruited half over the county of 
Worcester dn due course, but there was little oc- 
casion for secrecy concerning the disposal of his 
aunt’s property. 

“It’s a good thing done, after all,” muttered 
Mrs. Eastbell, as she lay down, wearily. 

“It’s brief and unlawyer-like,” said Reuben, 
contemplating the will; “but I think it sets 
forth your intentions clearly, aunt. What shall 
I do with it?” 

“Lock it in that iron box; the key is under 
my pillow,” said Mrs. Eastbell. 

Reuben found the key, and locked up the will, 
restoring the key to its place beneath his aunt’s 
head. 

“And now, concerning Sarah,” said Reuben. 

The old lady did not answer him. She had 
passed into a deep sleep, and was breathing 
heavily. It had been a day of more than ordina- 
ry fatigue and excitement to Mrs. Eastbell, and 
she was tired out ; sleep was life to a woman of 
her age, and he would not trouble her again con- 
cerning the granddaughter, or ask her any ques- 
tions respecting the engagement. There would 
be time enough to-morrow to consider that, and 
Sarah was waiting for him. 

He went out of the room, where he found the 
maid Hartley sitting by the door. 

“ Are you on watch here ?” he asked. 

“Yes, Sir. Mrs. Eastbell will not have me in 
her room, and Miss Holland has given me in- 
structions to remain till she comes.” 

“Miss Holland acts with commendable pre- 
caution,” said Reuben. “Where are the visit- 
ors?” 

“ In the picture-gallery, Sir. They sit up half 
the night there.” 

Reuben went down stairs thoughtfully. He 
had almost resolved to proceed to the gallery in 
the first place, but the temptation was too strong 
to seek out his second cousin, who would surely 
be in the drawing-room awaiting him. He had 
a great deal to tell her now, and a little to ex- 
plain concerning his past misanthropy, which 
had grown more strongly developed as she at 
last seemed to fade away more completely from 
him. Sarah Eastbell had been always on his 
mind since her illness in Hope Street^ Camber- 
well — in the midst of his own troubles, brought 
about by being security for John Jennings, and 
by various failures which had followed, and 
which proved how luck was always dead against 
him, the girl in whom he had become interested 
was ever present to him, and though her early 
letters angered him by her pity and her offers of 
assistance — he who had been ever too proud to 
receive help— still he took it as an offense when 
Sarah ceased from writing, and apparently for- 
got him. He had lost confidence in all human- 
kind save Sarah Eastbell, and she followed with 
the rest then. Prosperity had worked its usual 
change, and he was very poor ! He was ashamed 
now of the past, but why he had given way re- 
quired a long explanation to the girl whom he 
had resolved to make his wife, and whom he 
thought he had only loved in real earnest a few 
hours. A few hours ago, in his Drury Lane 
garret, he had discovered her real worth, and the 
sincerity of her disinterestedness. A real hero- 
ine had his second-cousin Sarah proved herself 


to be ; he wished that he had been more of a 
hero to match — that he had fought more bravely 
against the impossible. She did not know yet 
what an obstinate and bad-tempered man he 
was, and how he had quarreled with every body 
in turn after his father’s death. He would cer- 
tainly give himself die worst of characters, and 
not win Sarah Eastbell under false pretenses ; so 
peculiarly constituted was this man’s mind that 
he already began to feel that he was acting un- 
generously in seeking to win the affections of a 
girl who was far above him in position. He did 
not recollect that he was the son of Simon Cul- 
wick — he only remembered that he had sold his 
favorite books to raise funds to reach Sedge Hill 
that night. He must impress upon his cousin 
that he was “no great catch,” as Mrs. Eastbell 
had told him that very evening. 

He went into the drawing-room full of these 
odd resolutions, and found Mary Holland there. 

“Where is Sarah?” he asked, after a glance 
round the room had assured him of the absence 
of his second cousin. 

“Sarah?” said Miss Holland, springing to 
her feet. “Has she not been with you in Mrs. 
Eastbell’s room ?” 

“She left it half an hour since.” 

“ And you expected to find her here ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Wait an instant.” 

Mary Holland left the room ; and Reuben re- 
mained, with a new perplexity to battle with, 
and rising doubts and fears to beat down. 

“I am getting as nervous as these women,” 
he exclaimed, as he took one or two turns up 
and down the drawing-room; “as if any thing 
were going to happen because Sarah Eastbell 
has not been seen by Mary Holland, and t\yo 
disreputable scamps are in possession of my 
aunt’s house. As if— Well, what is it ? Why 
don’t you speak ?” 

Mary Holland had entered the room again, 
and was standing at the door, a paler and more 
affrighted woman than when he had seen her a 
few minutes since. 

“ Gone !” she said at last. 

“What do you mean ?” 

“That — that Sarah Eastbell is not in the 
house,” exclaimed Mary. 

“It can’t be true!” ejaculated Reuben. 

“Stay, let me think still. Eor Heaven’s sake 
give a distracted woman time to think !” 

Reuben, in the midst of his excitement, re- 
membered afterward that the demeanor of Mary 
Holland aroused in him for an instant a half- 
wondering interest, as in a dream of vague be- 
liefs and startling inconsistencies ; and then the 
trouble of Sarah’s absence took away aH thought 
of every thing else. 

“Her brother and the man he brought with 
him,” said Reuben — “where are they?” 

“ They are in the gallery still ; they could not 
have left the room without my being warned.” 

“They are in this plot, if plot there can be,” 
said Reuben. 

Mary Holland ran to the window and looked 
back at Reuben. 

“ Open !” she cried. 

Reuben and Mary Holland stepped into the 
garden, and looked round them. It was a dark, 
dry night, with the stars hidden now, and the 
wind soughing through the larches on the hill- 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


side with such plaintive moanings that Reuben 
stiove to catch the accents of his cousin s voice 
amidst them. 

“ We shall find her in the garden,” said Reu- 
ben, assuringly, as he strode along the paths, 
with which he was acquainted, and directed 
Mary Holland in a different direction. When 
they met again a quarter of an hour had passed, 
and they were no nearer the discovery of Sarah 
Eastbell. She had vanished away completely, 
as by a miracle, arid Reuben stood discomfited 
by the drawing-room window. 

“This is beyond, all guessing at,” he said, 
with a half groan. 

“The window of the picture-gallery is closed 
and barred,” said Mary Holland, “but they are 
there still.” 

“ I Avill see them at once,” said Reuben. 
“Meanwhile send out the servants to search the 
country. There has been foul play here.” 

“No, no ! God forbid 1” exclaimed Mary Hol- 
land. “ He said — he promised — ” 

“Who promised?” asked Reuben, quickly. 

“Sarah's brother,” answered Mary, after a 
moment’s silence. 

“ Well— promised what?” said Reuben, fiercely. 

“That he and his friend would not in any 
way disturb the peace of this house, that they 
were here in all sincerity, that — ” 

Reuben interrupted her. 

“Do you ask me to believe in that vagabond, 
Tom Eastbell?” he cried. 

“No.” 

“Or in his friend, whoever he may be?” 

“ If I had not distrusted both of them, should 
I have written to you to come and help us ?” 

“Right,” said Reuben ; “and, my God! I fear 
you have not distrusted in vain.” 

“ But I have not given up hope yet, Reuben,” 
she said, nervously. “This may* be a coinci- 
dence. Sarah may have gone away on some 
sudden errand. She is impulsive; and they 
whom we suspect are where I saw them hours 
ago. ” 

“ Send the servants abroad, as I directed, and 
leave these men to me,” said Reuben, passing 
from her into the drawing-room, and proceeding 
through the room into the hall, and along the 
corridor toward the picture-gallery. Mary Hol- 
land followed him, with the same white face and 
staring eyes, and it was not till his hand was on 
the door that he perceived her. 

“ Let me hear what they say,” she adjured. 

“I will tell you afterward. You are losing 
time. Summon the servants quietly, and do not 
disturb my aunt. Let her sleep if possible.” 

She walked away again, and he watched her 
down the corridor, perplexed by her manner, 
and then again forgetting it in the stern nature 
of the task which he had set himself, and in the 
deepening of the mist about his life. 


CHAPTER NIV. 

WITH THE ENEMY. 

As Reuben Culwick stood outside the door of 
the picture-gallery, he became aware that some 
one within the room was playing not unskillfully 
a violin. He turned the handle sharply the mo- 
ment afterward, and entered. 

G 


Yes, the two men were there. In the first 
light of the lamp, and amidst the thick haze of 
tobacco-smoke, he could perceive them. In the 
man lolling in the arm-chair, with the meer- 
schaum pipe in his mouth, there was no diffi- 
culty in identifying Thomas Eastbell; but he 
who bent closely and in a near-sighted fashion 
over a music-book propped against the lamp was 
a stranger whom he had never met before. It 
was at him that Reuben gazed, distrusting him 
more at first sight than Thomas Eastbell, and 
approaching him closely, in order to study every 
line upon his face, and in the hope of recognizing 
him when within a hand's grasp. 

Captain Peterson continued playing till Reu- 
ben was by the table, when he lowered his bow, 
and said, with modest confusion : 

“I beg pardon; I am short-sighted, and did 
not perceive that we had an addition to our com- 
pany. — Thomas,” turning to his friend, “will 
you have the goodness to introduce me to this 
gentleman ?” 

“ He is no friend of mine that I am aware of,” 
said Ihomas Eastbell, sulkily, 44 and I dare say 
he won’t care to make friends with one whose 
character has been took away right and left, and 
without rhyme or reason. You are Reuben Cul- 
wick, ain’t you ?” 

“ I am Reuben Culwick,” said our hero, stern- 
ly, looking from one to the other. 

“I don’t bear you ill-will, mind,” said Tom. 

“ When I was in trouble once in Potter’s Court, 
and the police came, and you might have made 
mischief out of a little bit*of innersent chaff we 
had together — the purest bit of fun — you stood 
by me like a trump, and 1 11 shake hands with 
you, if you ask me, just for my sister’s sake.” 

“ Which of you two men will save himself 
from jail by telling me where Sarah Eastbell is?” 
thundered forth Reuben Culwick. 

'I homas Eastbell’s lower jaw dropped at Mr. 
Culwick’s vehemence, and his semblance of as- 
tonishment was admirably feigned, unless he was 
astonished in real earnest. Captain Peterson put 
his violin and bow on the table, and sat down with 
his hands upon his knees, in the attitude of one 
who anticipated a narrative of great interest to 
follow. 

“Where Sarah Eastbell is!” said Peterson. 

“ Why do you put such an extraordinary ques- 
tion to us, Sir, and accompanied by such a threat 
as the jail ?” 

44 She is not in the house, and you two know 
where she has gone.” 

“Miss Eastbell was in the drawing-room a 
quarter of an hour ago, when I stepped in for 
my violin,” said Peterson; “surely she has not 
left the house since. There must be some mis- 
take, Mr. Culwick ; and, mistake or not, you 
will excuse me for protesting against your man- 
ner of addressing Mrs. Eastbell’s guests.” 

Captain Peterson spoke with a faltering voice 
and with considerable warmth, as a man might 
do whose feelings had been unnecessarily wound- 
ed, and Reuben Culwick regarded him with graver 
interest. Here was a being to be wary of, if this 
were acting— if all this were part and parcel of . 
the plot by which his second cousin had been 
spirited away. 

44 May I inquire your name?” said Reuben. 

“My name is Peterson, Sir — Captain Peter- 
son, of the merchant service — a friend of Thom- 


98 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


as Eastbell’s, and if not an old friend, still one 
who does not feel disposed to allow him to be 
browbeaten without a word of protest.” 

“I can take my own part, Ned; you speak 
up for yourself, when called upon,” said Thomas 
Eastbell, as he puffed at the stem of his meer- 
schaum with grave composure. 

“Peterson,” muttered Reuben, half aloud. 
The name was wholly unfamiliar to him ; it had 
not been mentioned on that night in Potter’s 
Court, and only incidentally some days after- 
ward by Lucy Jennings, when it had not lin- 
gered in his memory. Captain Peterson’s dark 
eyes peered from under his brows at Mr. Cul- 
wick as he repeated his name in a low tone, and 
there was the faintest smile of satisfaction flick- 
ering over his fresh-colored face at the discom- 
fiture expressed on Reuben’s. 

“You both deny all knowledge of my cousin’s 
disappearance ?” said Reuben. 

“We do,” said Peterson, with grave polite- 
ness ; and Tom took his oath upon it at once, by 
way of adding force to his denial. “And now, 
Sir, perhaps you will tell us what has happened.” 

“And relieve a brother’s anxiety,” added 
Tom. “She’s the only sister that I have got 
in the world, and we have always been very fond 
of one another.” 

“You overdo your anxiety,” said Reuben, 
dryly, “and I am still suspicious of you. Sa- 
rah Eastbell has disappeared suddenly from this 
house — within the last half hour — and you are - 
the men of whom she has been in fear. To that 
fact I swear before a magistrate to-morrow.” 

Thomas Eastbell put his pipe upon the mantel- 
piece, and writhed uneasily in his chair. Cap- 
tain Peterson shrugged his shoulders with an air 
of supreme indifference to Reuben’s warning. 

“Mr. Culwick,” said Peterson, with dignity,. 
“ once again I must protest against the unfriend-, 
lv position which you assume toward us. It is* 
unjust — nay, I will go so far as to say that it is. 
wholly unjustifiable. ” 

“ To-morrow the police will search the house 
and grounds for traces of her. I telegraph to- 
morrow to Scotland Yard for one of its ablest 
officers to meet us here.” 

Thomas Eastbell was heard to mutter a mal- 
ediction of the most violent kind upon his second 
cousin’s promptitude, but his friend turned quick- 
ly to him, and said, 

“Don’t give way, Thomas. Don’t let your 
sensibilities get the better of you, and lower your 
character before this man of many threats. You 
have been unfortunate in your early days — you 
have had the frankness to confess it to me, and 
the generosity to atone for it to others — but your 
later life is without stain or blemish. Let the 
police come : you can face them in your aunt's 
house — where this gentleman is more an in- 
truder than yourself — without a blush upon your 
honest cheek.” 

Thomas Eastbell put his hands in his trowsers 
pockets, raised his shoulders to his ears, and 
considered the question very deeply. 

“ Oh yes, I can do that,” he said, in an ag- 
grieved tone, at last; “ but what right has this 
chap to fill my house — I mean my aunt’s house — 
with a cussed lot of cusseder perlice, and make 
this row about my sister’s larks ? Hasn’t she 
run away before from grandmother ? — isn’t she 
always cutting off? — didn’t she go with me once 


to London ? — wasn’t she off again when we first 
came here ? — is her actions to be accounted for, 
or to be surprised at, that all Wooster is to be 
up in harms about it ?” 

“Exactly, Tom, exactly,” said his friend, 
“ but take it coolly. You and I, who have 
been in this room some hours — barring my one 
minute’s absence to fetch my violin — are above 
the insinuations of this gentleman, and there is 
no occasion to be excited by them.” 

“At your peril be it, if she is not found,” said 
Reuben, still more passionately; then he strode 
from the room, doubtful in his own heart, and de- 
spite his sternness, of these men’s complicity of 
the mystery of Sarah EastbelTs disappearance. 

As the door closed Tom leaped to his feet, 
and went across to his friend, whom he clutched 
by the shoulder nervously. 

“ Has she really gone ?” 

“Yes,” said Ned, coolly, as he took a fresh 
cigar from the box on the table, “fortune has 
favored us, and she has left your grandmother's, 
establishment.” , i ,■ • 

“ There must be no harm done to her,” Tom 
said, trembling; “I won’t have her hurt, I, 
swear.” 

“You left all to me, Tom Eastbell,” said 
Captain. Peterson, lighting his cigar ; “it’s too- 
late to complain, whatever happens.” 

♦ 

CHAPTER XV. 

REUBEN LOSES FAITH. 

Only one person slept that night in the big 
house at Sedge Hill. While Mrs. Eastbel? slum- 
bered, the inmates were astir, and not a few of 
them abroad, beating right and left for scraps of 
information, and failing in their object miserably. 
Sarah Eastbell had disappeared, leaving not a 
trace by which she might be followed. Reuben 
Culwick moved to and fro. like a restless spirit, 
uncertain what to do; but when the hour Was. 
late, and all hope of finding her within the 
house or grounds was wholly given up, he sad- 
dled the one horse of the establishment* anjl 
rode away to Worcester. As he rode on in the 
darkness of the night, with the trees overshad- 
owing him, and the black hills rising right and 
left, he thought, with a shudder, how easy it 
was for one poor soul to disappear amidst this 
desolation, with no one but herself and those 
who had betrayed her the wiser for her going. 
There were sheep-tracks and foot-paths across 
the hills, along which she might have been 
dragged by those who saw in her life a barrier 
to their advancement — there was the Severn, 
deep and treacherous, flowing on through the 
night’s landscape, and what might its sullen wa- 
ters hide from him who was in search of her? 
He was not a man who took a morbid view of 
things, and put the darkest construction on a 
mystery; but he was scarcely hopeful in that 
hour. Sarah had disappeared strangely and aw- 
fully ; he and she had been warned of danger, 
and w r ere both. on guard against it; he had been 
sent for by Miss Holland in her fear of foul plav ; 
there were Tom Eastbell and a companion "in 
possession of his aunt’s house^and there was a 
hundred thousand pounds or more trembling in 
the balance against two women's lives. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


Had not lives been sacrificed for one-hundredth 
part of such a fortune by men whose greed of 
gold had turned them into wolves, and was Tom 
Eastbell to be trusted even Avith his sister’s life 
| when a fortune was at stake ? God forgive him 
if he Avere Avrong, but he thought the Avorst and 
feated the worst in the first hour of his search 
for Second-cousin Sarah. 

j As he rode on to Worcester he scanned the 
hedge-roAvs and the dry ditches for a trace of 
her; he turned intoyawning lanes where all Avas 
of an indistinguishable darkness ; he reined in 
his horse fifty times to listen to the noises of the 
night the shriek of a distant engine toiling on 
Avith its luggage through the country to some 
bustling centre ; the rattle of the train, the rus- 
tling of the trees, the whirring of a night-bird in 
the long grass of the meadows, the yelping of 
dogs in the farm-house yards, as he dashed by. 
Gnce he rode down a narroAv causeway,' between 
tAvo high banks, into the river, Avhere his horse 
stood shivering and snorting, Avhile he peered 
along the water for a sign of life going Avith the 
tide; and baffled at all points, he found his Avay 
at last to Worcester, and went sIoavIv, hopeless- 
ly along its deserted streets in the direction of 
the police station. 

It Avas seven in the morning when he Avas at 
Sedge Hill again. He rode back in hot haste, 
as if something unforeseen were to be thAvarted 
bv his quick return ; and he Avas prepared for 
evil tidings as he passed into the hall, and found 
Miss Holland, pale as he had seen her last, 
awaiting him with eager eyes. 

“What neAvs? what has happened since I 
ha\'e been aAvay ?” he exclaimed. 

“Nothing has happened,” answered Mary Hol- 
land. “And you ? — have you heard or seen — ” 
He did not Avait for the completion of her sen- 
tence. 

“ There is not a trace of her.” 

Mary Holland walked into the draAAung-room 
Avhence Sarah had disappeared last night, and he 
folloAved her, and sank upon the couch. 

“You are ill — you haA r e overtaxed your 
strength,” she said, bending over him anxiously. 

“No— let me be,” he said, ungratefully. “lam 
only heart-sick, and crushed down by suspense.” 
“You regard all this too gloomily.” 

“ The servants — have they heard any thing?” 
“ Nothing.” 

“ What do you think they told me at the po- 
lice station ?” said Reuben, with a stamp of his 
foot upon the carpet that made the AvindoAvs rat- 
tle in their sashes. 

“ I can not guess.” 

“That there Avas nothing in the case which 
vyarranted their interference — that they Avould 
make a feAV inquiries at my request, but that I 
might rest assured that Sarah Eastbell had gone 
aAvay of her own free-Avill.” 

“ It is possible,” said Mary Holland, thought- 
fully. 

“It is false!” shouted Reuben, springing to 
his feet again ; “and you are not her friend to 
belieA'e it. Great Heaven! if I could only see 
my way more clearly.” 

It was the cry of a man in despair, and its in- 
tensity thrilled his listener. 

“ You loved your cousin, then ?” 

“ With all my heart. There Avas no one else 
in the Avorld Avho cared for me !” 


“ Hope for her now. She will come back; I 
think,” said Mary Holland, with excitement. 

^ ou must not give Avay, and leaA'e us helpless 
here.” 

He became stern and grim again. 

‘ ‘ No— I must not give way yet, ” he muttered. 

‘ ‘ There is the old woman to sustain — to de- 
ceive. ” ‘ 

“ Ay, to deceive ! Is that possible, in the face 
of so great a calamity as this ?” 

“I don’t knoAv,” Avas the reply. “ She is a 
child, and easily led. We must'not tell her at 
once that Sarah is gone. She will not Avake till 
late and then her granddaughter mav be back 
again.” 

It ou are strangely hopeful, ” said Reuben, sur- 
veying her moodily. “ Can you believe in either 
ot those men Avho hold possession of this house ?” 

I don t trust them ; but e\ r en if they know 
where Sarah is, I can not think so badly of them 
as to believe that her life is unsafe in their hands.” 

“You do not knoAv.” 

“ Not knoAv !” she whispered to herself,' as she 
stole out of the room, and left Reuben brooding 
on the next step to be pursued. 

He sat before the fire Avhere Ave, Avho are be- 
hind the scenes, are aware that his cousin Sarah 
Avas surprised by her sister-in-law, and endeaA r - 
ored from his beivildered brain to shape out a 
scheme for her discovery, when the maid Hartley 
entered with breakfast on a little tray, and set i’t 
doAvn on a coffee-table at his side. 

“Take it aAvay, girl,” he said, Avith a shud- 
der; “I can't eat.” 

“ It Avas Miss Holland’s Avish, Sir.” 

“I thank her,” he answered, “but I haA’en’t 
time or inclination; I must be afoot again at 
once. What’s this?” 

There Avas a letter lying on the tray, addressed 
to himself, The superscription Avas in a strange 
hand, a fine, bold handwriting, characterized bv 
too many flourishes to be Avhollv satisfactory, 
and he took up the letter curiously. 

“ Miss Holland told me to place it in the tray. 
Sir.” 

“Stay one moment; it may require an an- 
SAver. ” 

He broke the seal, and read the folloAving epis- 
tle : 

“ Sedge Hill, September, 18—. 

“Sir, — A fter your discourteous beha\dor of 
yesterday evening, I can not, Avith satisfaction to 
myself, remain a guest in your aunt’s establish- 
ment. I feel compelled to withdraAv from a po- 
sition Avhich it is incompatible Avith my dignity 
to retain. I have intrusted Mr. Thomas East- 
bell Avith my kind regards to his grandmother, 
to Avhose hospitality and invariable kindness I 
am forever deeply indebted. My servant will 
call for my violin in the course of next week. 

“1 beg to remain, Sir, 

“ Your obedient secant, 

“ Edward Peterson. 

“P.S. — If I should hear any thing of Miss 
Eastbell, I shall take the earliest opportunity of 
communicating with her relatives.” 

There Avas a deep furroAV on the brow of Reu- 
ben Cuhvick Avhen he had finished the perusal 
of this letter. 

“Why Avas this man alloAved to leaA'e the 
use ?” he asked. 


100 


SECOND-COUSIN SAliAH. 


“ What man, 'Sir?” 

“ He who calls himself Captain Peterson.” 

“ I didn’t know that he was gone, Sir.” 

“Not know?” 

“Not that I could have stopped him, Mr. 
Culwick, as all the servants were away when I 
saw him last.” - 

“ When was that ?” 

“ At five o'clock this morning. He was talk- 
ing to Miss Holland — here, just where I stand, 
Sir— and I think that they were having a few 
words. I don’t know for certain, but I think so. ” 

“With Miss Holland,” said Reuben Culwick. 
“Thev were together in this room?” 

“Yes.”' 

“ And quarreling?” 

‘ ‘ Hardly quarreling. I could not hear a word, 
they spoke so low ; but I tried hard, Sir, I did 
indeed !” 

“ You suspected them ?” said Reuben, quickly. 

“N-no, Sir, I don’t say that,” was the quick 
answer, as the woman flinched before his steady 
gaze ; “ but I' was curious, of course. It’s all in 
such a muddle, Sir, just now, and Miss Holland’s 
very kind ; she’s been always very kind to all of 
us, but I wanted to hear what they had to say, 
because poor Miss Sarah — I can’t help calling her 
poor Miss Sarah somehow — was angry at those 
two being together in the garden last night.” 

“Those two — which two?” 

“Miss Holland and the captain.” 

“ Sarah was angry,” repeated Reuben — “ with 
whom ?” 

“With Miss Holland, just before you came. 
She said she couldn’t trust her. I heard that as 
I was passing with my mistress’s gruel, quite by 
accident.” 

“That will do,” said Reuben, moodily ; “don’t 
say any more. I will wait for Miss Holland.” 

“ Shall I tell her that you want to see her, Sir?” 

“Ay, do, ’’was the reply. 

When the maid had withdrawn, Reuben lean- 
ed his elbows 'on the coffee-table, clutched his 
beard, and stared before him at the opposite win- 
dow, where last night Sarah Eastbell had passed 
through, ghost fashion, to a fate at which no one 
guessed. Here was a new mystery, a new com- 
plication, unless Mary Holland could dissipate it 
with a breath. What had she to say to Tom 
Eastbell’s friend, that she must steal into the 
grounds with him after dark, and thus arouse the 
suspicions of his second cousin? He could re- 
member that he had been suspicious also for a 
moment ; that words which Mary Holland had 
said had struck him as remarkable, before the 
rush of events had carried him beyond them. 
What had he ever known — what had Sarah ever 
known — of this young woman that he should put 
faith in her, after all? He could have remem- 
bered many little acts of kindness and womanly 
courtesy if he had stopped to reflect — he did re- 
member them, when it was too late— but all that 
flashed to his mind at that crisis was the con- 
sciousness of something kept back from him con- 
cerning the man whom Tom Eastbell had brought 
into the house, and from whose coming had fol- 
lowed awful doubts and grave perplexities. 

What did it all mean ? If Mary Holland were 
not to be trusted, if this strange girl had for years 
deceived him, if his mother’s warning were, after 
all, correct, what was to be done at the eleventh 
hour, when lie was in great trouble ? 


The door opened, and Mary Holland came into 
the room again. 

“ You sent for me,” she said. 

“Yes,” he said; “in misery and fear I sent 
for you.” 

“Indeed!” 

“ Sit down, please,” he said. “ I am anxious 
to ask you many questions.” 

The old pallor which Sarah Eastbell had per- 
ceived stole to Mary’s face as Reuben spoke, but 
she took the chair which he had indicated, and 
which was at a little distance from the couch, and 
sat down facing him. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

MISUNDERSTOOD. 

Now that Mary Holland was before him, Reu- 
ben Culwick found a difficulty in framing his 
questions so as to avoid all semblance of his sus- 
picions at the outset. He could not look at her 
and doubt her, even then ; and he was hopeful 
of a rational explanation to it all. 

“Though we have not seen a great deal of 
each other in our lives, Mary,” he began, kindly 
and earnestly, “ still it is through you that great 
changes have occurred ; that I have lost my fa- 
ther’s love, and home, and fortune.” 

“Yes,” said Mary, sadly, “that is true.” 

“I lost the three without losing confidence in 
you. As I learned to respect you, I began to 
think of the possibility of many past mistakes 
on my side and my mother’s. Of late days I 
have considered you the friend of all in this 
house.” 

“I have done my best to be the friend,” she 
answered. 

“ Last night, and for the first time in my life, 
a suspicion seized me. 1 hardly know what it 
was. It would have passed away, but that it 
came again to-day, strengthened by new doubts. 
You see this letter ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Are you aware of its purport ?” 

“No, save that it was written in my presence 
by Captain Peterson. Dare he — does he refer 
to me in that?” she cried, with the color mount- 
ing to her cheeks for a moment, and then dying 
away into the old gray tint. 

“ Not by a word. He is as silent respecting 
the past relations between you as you have always 
been,” said Reuben. 

Mary Holland pushed her chair back from 
him without rising in her seat. 

“ You know, then ?” she said, in her dismay. 

“I know that you and he were conferring 
together in the garden last night ; that there is 
a secret between you which I do not share, and 
which you have made no effort to reveal ; and I 
believe that man knows where Sarah Eastbell is, 
and is in all respects a villain.” 

“In all respects a villain — yes,” said Mary 
Holland, in reply. 

“Tell me what you know of him, and when 
you knew him first.” 

Mary Holland clasped her hands together, and 
looked down. 

“I can not,” she said, in a low voice. 

“He is at the bottom of a terrible mystery, 
he has brought grief to me, he is linked with 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


• Thomas Eastbell against the peace of this house, 
and you will not give me one clew to his life.” 

“I know but little of him, Reuben,” she an- 
swered, ‘‘and that I can not divulge now. It is 
more than my life’s worth to attempt it.” 

“ You fear him ?” 

“Yes.” 

“\ou know that Sarah Eastbell is in his 
power?” 

“He denies it all.” 

“ And you take his word, siding with him 
against me and the happiness of that old woman 
whom you profess to serve faithfully.” 

“I have no confidence in any thing he does 
or says,” said Mary Holland, fretfully ; “ but mv 
hands are tied, and I am helpless.” 

“ In not helping us, you betrav us.” 

“ God help me ! Think so if you will, Sir,” 
she cried, despairingly; “I give up. I have 
done playing my old part, when you see fit to 
cast a slur upon me.” 

“What else can I do?” 

“Nothing,” she said. “I could not explain 
to Sarah Eastbell ; I can not explain to you at 
this time. I can only say that I am a woman 
grievously misunderstood.” 

“Miss Holland,” said Reuben, “I am sorry, 
but I can not trust you any more in this house.” 

“ I will go away. ” 

“For your own satisfaction it will be better, 
though I have no power here to command you 
to withdraw. I should watch your every action 
after this, and it would be my duty to put old 
Mrs. Eastbell on her guard against you.” 

“Ah! don’t do that,” cried Mary ; “ let one 
heart think the best of me to the last. There 
will come a time for explanation, but she may 
not be living to say, ‘ I am sorry that I did not 
trust you.’ ” 

Reuben w r avered at this outburst of passion on 
the part of his companion, and then grew hard 
again. She knew this Peterson ; she had been 
in secret conference with him ; she had let him 
escape from the house ; and she might be in 
league with him against Sarah Eastbell. There 
was no honest secret which she could not have 
confessed, he thought, and there was no honest 
motive which could afford to screen the man in 
that hour of tribulation. 

“ Mrs. Eastbell never cared for me much,” said 
Mary Holland, sadly; “but then I have never 
been liked a great deal, though I have tried hard 
to be more than once. Ah ! it w r as all acting, 
and I failed — failed in every thing but in con- 
cealing the utter misery of my life till now.” 

She broke down here, and spread her hands 
before her face to hide her tears from him. He 
was puzzled. Was this acting too ? he thought, 
till his generous nature sided with her, even 
against his caution. 

“ Mary Holland, trust me with the truth.” 

“No, no,” she cried, starting to her feet; “it 
is impossible! You do not know — you can not 
guess! If it w r ere Sarah Eastbell’s life at stake, 

I — I could not tell you — there!” 

“After that I have no faith left,” said Reu- 
ben, very sternly. 

“It’s as w r ell, perhaps,” she said, slowly; “I 
am no use here after your avowal, and I will go 
away at once. Hartley is a good nurse and serv- 
ant, and will take care of Mrs. Eastbell till Sa- 
rah comes back. I shall not be missed.” 


101 

“ 'l iH Sarah comes back,” he echoed, scornfully. 
‘‘She will not be long, I think— I hope.”' 
“You know where she is!” cried Reuben, 
fiercely. 

“ As I hope for Heaven, I can not guess,” she 
answered, solemnly. 

“ Will you try and find her?” 

“ I am powerless,” she replied ; “I know not 
which way to turn.” 

“ But will you try ?” said Reuben, persistently. 
He had no faith in her power, but he was anxious 
to test her to the utmost. 

“ Not yet," was the strange answer. 

‘ Be it so, Miss Holland,” said Reuben, turn- 
ing away ; “I have at last lost faith in you for- 
ever.” J 

She did not speak again. She looked at him 
steadily for a few moments, and then went away, 
and up the stairs to her own room, at the end of 
the corridor, and it was some hours before she 
was seen again in that house. It was nearly 
mid-day when, dressed as for a journey, she re- 
appeared in the corridor, and faced Hartley, still 
at her old post, a woman forever on guard. 

“ You are a trusty servant, Hartley, ’’she said, 
as she advanced ; “ but you must be extra vigi- 
lant, extra strong, and clever and cunning, while 
I am away.” 

“Are you going— at this time, Miss Holland ?” 
exclaimed Hartley, in surprise. 

“ \es — for a little while. I will write to Miss 
Sarah by next post.” 

“ To Miss Eastbell !” exclaimed Hartley. 

“ Meanwhile listen at this door— you are good 
at listening, I believe.” 

“Oh, madam!— I— What makes you say 
that?” 

“All is mystery in this house, and I set you 
on the watch for all of us. If I have seemed part 
of the mystery too, it was your place to wai n one 
who will soon be rightful master here. But list- 
en now for me.” 

“ I do not understand, madam.” 

“On the brink of many strange catastrophes 
that poor woman has slept in much security. It 
has been our mission more than once to keep the 
truth from killing her, and Heaven will pardon 
the fiction we have woven round her life, as I 
pray that Heaven will pardon me.” 

At the door of the room she paused again. 

“Listen,” she said once more; “it will be 
your cue for to-day, at all hazards.” 

She entered the sleeping- chamber of Mrs. 
Eastbell, and the sharp voice of her who lav 
there challenged her at once. 

“Who’s there?” 

The voice was very light and crisp with which 
she answered. Yes, Mary Holland was an act- 
ress in her w'ay. 

“It is only I,” said she, in answer to her. 

“ I have just woke up, Mary,” said Mrs. East- 
bell, “but I am weary still.” 

“ You must rest to-day — and to-morrow.” 

“I shall rest till Christmas,” said the old lady, 
firmly ; “ I’ll have no more running up and down 
those horrid stairs for any body. Where’s Sa- 
rah ?” 

“Do you want her ?” 

“ No. I dare say she’ll like to be with Reuben 
to-day. I’ll not disturb their sweethearting, not I.” 

“That’s well. And do you think you can 
spare me ?” 


■102 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“To be sure.” 

“ Hartley is here. You like Hartley ?” 

“ Very well indeed : a worthy young woman, 
Mary ; but she snored awful when she slept here. 
I couldn't bide her snores.” 

“If you could spare me for a day or two — a 
week, perhaps— I should be glad of a. holiday, 
Mrs. Eastbell.” 

“What for? Yes. Take a week — take a 
fortnight— any thing,” said Mrs. Eastbell, with 


“I shall be sleepy enough after breakfas't. 
Those stairs would tire a horse, Mary. ” 

“ Good-by, then.” 

There w r as a true affection in the kiss she gave 
the old woman, and in the earnest pressure of 
the hand, but there was something singular in 
it, for Mrs. Eastbell said, 

“ Is any thing the matter ?” 

“No — no — nothing. What should there be 
the matter ?” 



easy alacrity; “Reuben is in the house— and 
Sarah’s back— and Tom’s here. All I care for 
now — and all together.” 

“But they are busy — you may miss me.” 

“ So that I know they are in the house, I 
shan’t miss any body. When I want company, 
I can be dressed and go down to them.” 

“And to-day you will sleep?” 


“Where are you going?” 

Miss Holland paused for a moment. 

“To London,” she answered. 

“ Have you friends there ?” ' 

“ Yes— one friend, whom I am going to meet.” 
“Oh! indeed. If you want any money fot 
your journey, Sarah will give it vou.” 

“I have plenty of money, thank you.” 



• SEC0ND-C01 

• “ Ask Sally to give you some, though. I shall 

want a cap from Bond Street — anv price, so 
that it s becoming, and you know what becomes 
me, Mary. Don t stand about a sovereign or 
two. And wait a moment — I’ll have two caps ; 
one for Mrs. Muggeridge, at St. Oswald’s, just to 
let her know I ain’t forgot her.” 

“ Good-by,” said Mary Holland again — “ God 
bless you.” . ; 

“ Well, God bless you too, for the matter of 
that, child — but why — ” 

‘‘If you please, ma’am,” said Hartley’s voice, 
“she’s gone.” J ’ 

“ Oh ! has she ? What’s all her hurrv about. 
Hartley?” 

“ The train starts at 1.30 from Worcester.” 

“Ah, yes. But she’s uncommon strange to- 
day. Uncommon,” she added, after a long pause. 
“And, Hartley!” 

“ Yes, madam.” 

“Ring for my breakfast. It’s my belief 
they’re going to starve me, now I have made my 
will.” 

“ Yes, madam.” 

Hartley rang the bell, and then joined Miss 
Holland, waiting outside. 

“ Where is Thomas Eastbell ?” asked Mary, in 
a whisper. 

“In the picture-gallery.” 

^ “Watch him still. Keep guard here till Miss 
Eastbell comes back, at any cost.” 

“ Till Miss East— ” 

“ Where is Mr. Culwick?” 

“He went away on horseback an hour ago.” 

“Has he seen Sarah’s brother this morning?” 

“ Yes — but Miss Sarah? Do you know, then, 
that she will return?” 

“She will return late this evening. Tell Mr. 
Culwick so when he comes back,” said Mary, as 
che went swiftly down the stairs, and out of the 
house wherein she had spent nearly six years of 
her life, winning no man’s love or woman’s grati- 
tude. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

TOM EASTBELL IS ALARMED. 

Sedge Hill was more desolate after Mary 
Holland had departed. Though Miss Holland 
knew it not, she had been the ruling agent of 
that house, for good or evil, for a longer period 
than that from which the opening of our story 
dates. A forlorn little woman, set forever under 
suspicion by an adverse fate beyond her power to 
resist, she was still to be missed when she had 
passed from the home into which Simon Cul- 
wick’s charity had installed her. 

She was missed at once. She had remained 
the lady housekeeper in Mrs. Eastbell’s time as 
in Mr. Culwick’s; no one had interfered with 
her jurisdiction until the dark days came again, 
suddenly and swiftly, to this unlucky house. 

The servants knew that she was gone, although 
her boxes had not been carried from her room, 
and she had only spoken to Hartley of her going. 
This was one more change, sudden and unlooked 
for : ' what would happen next at Sedge Hill ? 

The news reached Thomas Eastbell last of all 
in that house — when Wills had brought him his 
lunch into the picture-gallery after he had rung 
for it, not before. It was strange what a small 


JSIN SARAH. 103 

amount of respect he had gained from the serv- 
j ants during his stay, and with what distrust he 
was regarded, considering the trouble which he 
had taken to make himself agreeable to the mem- 
bers of his grandmother’s household. Still, in 
response to one or two questions, the news was 
elicited from the man-servant that Miss Holland 
had left Sedge Hill for good. 

“ And a good job too,” said Thomas Eastbell, 
frankly and inelegantly. “What did the old 
gal want with her about the place? It’s full 
enough now of people who've no business here, 
although they’re making themselves scarce bv 
degrees. Where’s that Culwick ?.” 

. “The young master, Sir?” 

“ The young devil!— file young pauper!— the 
thundering big bounce !” screamed Thomas East- 
bell, with unnecessary violence. “You shut up 
about ‘ the young master,’ or you’ll go next, if I 
have any thing to do with this house— which I 
may have — which I shall have, mind you — 
though every body treats me bad here. ” 

“Indeed, Sir!”’ said the servant, quietly. 

Mr. Thomas Eastbell was not drunk — scarce- 
ly half drunk — but he was excited, and he had 
paid a fair amount of attention to a brandy bottle, 
which was on the mantel-piece, in the course of 
the morning. He was scarcely himself. He was 
not a bold man ; all the cunning in his nature — 
and a very fair stock of it he had — had been in- 
variably impaired by a want of nerve at critical 
moments of his career, when a steady hand and 
a calm heart would have been worth a Jew’s eye 
to him. He had been nervous since last night; 
he had been perplexed and surprised and alarmed 
then, and he had not got over it. He was a man 
Of no forethought, the end of his plotting and 
counterplotting he was unable to perceive, and 
in his embarrassment he had taken brandy, which 
had given him courage to act upon the advice of 
Captain Peterson, and stand his ground at Sedge 
Hill. Perhaps it was best, but it was decidedly 
uncomfortable. Peterson kept him very much 
in the dark, but beyond the darkness there was 
money to be made — he could hear the melodious 
jingle of the coin now, unless his imagination 
was too strong for him, and it was simply the 
rattle of the handcuffs with which he had been 
familiar at odd periods of his career. Yes, he 
had been nervous, and it had required ardent 
spirits to support him. 

“Where’s he gone now?” shouted Thomas 
Eastbell at the servant. “Can't you open your 
mouth a little wider, and answer my question? 
Where’s he gone ?” 

“I think he has gone to Worcester again.” 

“ I hope he will break his neck before he gets 
back— that’s all the harm I wish him,” muttered 
Tom. 

The servant was at the door, when Mr. East- 
bell’s voice was once more raised a note or two. 

“Here! — hi! — wait a minute, will you,” he 
screamed forth. “Where’s my grandmother?” 

“ In her room.” 

“ Is she coming down to-day ?” 

“ I don’t know, Sir.” 

“ Have they locked her up aw r ay from me — is 
that their game?” 

“ My mistress does not come dowm stairs ev- 
ery day — sometimes she will remain in bed for 
months.” 

“Because no one tries to rouse the poor lady 


104 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


— that’s it,” said Mr. Eastbell, with a sadden 
quaver of emotion in his voice, as he sat down 
and shook his head over the mutton-chop which 
had been brought to him. 

The door of the picture-gallery was opened 
by the servant, who found himself once more 
checked in his movement to depart. 

“ Here ! — hi ! — what are you in such an infer- 
nal hurry about?” Eastbell cried. “Take. my 
love to the old— to Mrs. Eastbell, and say that 
I shall be glad to see her as soon fis she can 
make it convenient for me to pay my respects, 
and that I have important news for her — most 
important.” 

“Yes, Sir.”' 

Wills withdrew, but outside the room he shook 
his fist in the direction of the door he had quit- 
ted, and then repaired to the servants’ hall with- 
out delivering the message with which his mis- 
tress’s grandson had intrusted him. Presently 
he would inform Hartley, who had had her in- 
structions from Miss Holland, and Sarah East- 
bell, and Reuben Culwick — but there was plenty 
of time. If he knew any thing of Mrs. Eastbell, 
he was certain that the old lady would receive 
no one after the fatigue of yesterday’s dressing 
and undressing — and it was already well circula- 
ted in the house that the mistress must not hear 
of Sarah Eastbell’s flitting, a fact which the man 
in the picture-gallery was probably dying to com- 
municate. 

Thomas Eastbell consumed his lunch with dif- 
ficulty. He had no appetite, but it was necessary 
to keep himself up, the captain had said, and all 
his life he had believed in Captain Peterson. He 
fell asleep after his meal, and over one more tum- 
bler of brandv-and-water, which he had the dis- 
cretion to mix weak, as the fates only knew what 
might hinge upon the next few hours. He did 
not know. No one could ever charge him with 
any thing if he didn’t know any thing, could 
they ? If he had never moved from the house — 
if he had been at Sedge Hill from first to last — 
who was there in all the blessed world to say a 
word against him ? 

He fell asleep asking himself these questions, 
muttering them over to himself like a man de- 
mented, and when he woke up they were the 
first words on his parched lips as he stared va- 
cantly round him, and fought hard to recollect 
where he was, and how long he had sat huddled 
in the arm-chair, an angular distortion, in his 
comfortless slumber. 

It was night, and the huge room was full of 
darkness, which had crept upon Sedge Hill be- 
fore its time, or he had slept long and late, and 
all in that unsettled house had forgotten his ex- 
istence, were his first ideas when he began to re- 
member that he was in the picture-gallery which 
Simon Culwick had built. What a heavy sleep 
his must have been, to be sure ! He had taken 
too much brandy, after all, then — he had been a 
hideous fool when he should have been overwise, 
and one fair opportunity which chance had given 
him had drifted by in his torpor. He cursed his 
stupidity as he sat there; he lost his temper 
again, and became hot, angry, and confused, 
when he should have striven hard for self-pos- 
session ; he swore desperately to himself because 
he could not remember in what part of the room 
lie was sitting, and in which direction lay the 
door, and the great bay-window where the blinds 


were. He stood up, and tried to pierce through 
the darkness, and a sudden chill seized upon his 
veins, and turned him sick as he fancied that he 
might have woke up blind, like his grandmother ! 
Why not ?— it was in the family— and all before 
him was awfully black and thick and impene- 
trable. It was raining outside too: that ac- 
counted for the hissing in his ears ’which he had 
awakened with, and which he had thought was 
at his brain. It was coming down in earnest on 
the ground-glass roof, which he looked up at, fan- 
cying that he could see the paneled frames in 
relief against the denser blackness of the night. 
Yes, he could see them !— he was not blind, thank 
God! For one instant he was absolutely grate- 
ful, until he stepped forward and fell over a foot- 
stool, and came with his chin against the mar- 
ble mantel-shelf, biting his tongue unpleasantly 
between his sharp yellow teeth. After that lit- 
tle accident he cursed the world, the stool, and 
himself with all his old heartiness of profanity. 
When he had recovered from this last little acci- 
dent, he stood with his hands clutching the man- 
tel-piece, considering his position, and wonder- 
ing why he had been so unwarrantably neglect- 
ed. He felt along the marble shelf for a box of 
wax vestas that should have been there, and onlv 
succeeded in sending his favorite meerschaum— 
which he had expended nine months in coloring 
— with a crash into the fender, where it shivered 
into many pieces, and over the ruin of which he 
broke into fresh oaths. Finally he groped his 
way toward the door, keeping his hand on the 
wall, or on the varnished surface of the paintings 
with which the wall was hung. He had made 
up his mind ; he would seek Grandmother East- 
bell, and tell her the truth, and more than the 
truth it it were requisite. He was being imposed 
upon. People of no principle had taken advan- 
tage of his slumbers, and were setting his near- 
est and dearest relation against him. Reuben 
Culwick was at the head of affairs, and poisoning 
the public mind. Even the servants had turned 
upon him, and brought him no dinner, and left 
him in the dark. He came to a full stop once 
more, and fell against the pictures, scratching 
them with his trembling hands in his alarm ; 
for the door behind him in the distance — the 
side-door leading away from the corridor — had 
opened suddenly and sharply, and was shut again 
as he glanced toward a fitful gleam of light which 
narrowed and then passed away. In that fleeting 
moment he had seen enough to scare a stronger 
nerve than his— for a white figure had glided into 
the chamber, and was advancing toward him, he 
was sure ! He had seen it in the dim light of 
the passage without before the door was shut ; 
he believed that even now the fitful shimmer of 
white drapery was faintly perceptible, a moving 
mystery in the gloom of the great room. He 
lemained, silent and trembling, until the rus- 
tling of gaiments assured him that something 
was approaching him with noiseless steps that 
reminded him of the ghost in the Castle Spec- 
tre, which he had seen once from the gallery of 
a theatre. He made a swift plunge for the door 
in his horror. 

It was his sister’s spirit, he was sure ; she 
had been muideied by those from whose clutches 
he had made no effort to save her ; and she had 
come for him! His last hour had arrived, and 
it was all over with his dreams of glory. 


Tom Eastbell,” said a sharp voice in his 
me?’ are y ° U her6? Wh ^ don t I™ s Peak to 

then?” andm0ther ’” he e j aculated > “ is it you, 
“Can’t you see ?” 

d ? rk ‘- IVe been aslee P’ and 1 couldn’t 
make out who it was. Oh, Lor’! how you’ve 
frightened me !” * u ve 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


which he had quitted, a strange phantom enough 
m her white night-dress, and with a counterpane 
wrapped round her, toga - fashion, and trailing 
many yards behind her. Her big frilled nights 
cap was awry, her gray hair hung from it in mad 
disorder, and there was an awful expression on 
her face, which was not pleasant to confront, 
even at that distance. 

“What’s the matter?” said Tom, irresolute- 



A WHITE FIGURE WAS ADVANCING TOWARD HIM.” 


“Are you alone?” 

“Yes. I wish I wasn’t.” 

“Come here and sit down. We can talk best 
in the dark, and I want to talk to you.” 

“I’d rather have a light, thank you,” said 
Tom, who still had his suspicions that all was not 
right. He found his way to the principal door, 
and opened it, letting in a stream of light from 
the corridor without. He looked back at his 
grandmother, who was standing by the chair 


ly ; ain t you well ? What have you come 
down stairs for, such a sight as this ?” 

I can t rest. There’s something wronn 
Tom. I’m unhappy.” 

“Why?” 

“ They’re all— you with the rest of ’em— keep- 
ing something from me. Where’s Sarah ?— oh 
where’s my Sally?— tell me.” 

“Wait a moment,” said Tom; “I’ll tell you 
everything.” 





106 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


An idea had seized him at last. The oppor- 
tunity which he thought that he had missed had 
come to him in this manner. There was no time 
to lose. ' 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

MORE SHADOW. 

On that particular day Mrs. Eastbell had not 
been rendered comfortable in her mind by the 
expedients with which it had been necessary to 
beguile her from a truth that might have killed 
her off-hand. Old age had awakened to more 
critical perceptions at a moment when deceit 
meant life to her, and there had been many 
questions hard to battle with and to baffle. 
Hartley had done her best, but her inventive 
faculty was speedily exhausted, and Mrs. East- 
bell remained terribly wakeful and inquisitive. 
There followed no sleep to relieve guard, and 
Hartley’s excuses for all things that were mys- 
terious became lame and impotent, and at times 
incomprehensible. Mrs. Eastbell had not been 
in the habit of asking many questions — she had 
taken every thing for granted, and had had faith 
in the honest service of those by whom she was 
surrounded ; but with the signing of her will had 
followed much perplexity, and, to all outward 
seeming, a complete desertion of her. 

She left off cross-examining Hartley from 
sheer weariness at last. Her granddaughter was 
walking with Mr. Culwick — she was asleep — 
she was writing letters — she was every where 
but at the side of the old woman who asked for 
her. Was it possible that, having signed every 
thing away, the mistress of Sedge Hill was to 
be deserted ? or had something happened which 
these servants were endeavoring to conceal, trust- 
ing to her blindness and her time-benumbed fac- 
ulties? Some hours after luncheon she became 
suddenly very silent, and Hartley after a while 
stepped in, stood by her bedside, listened to her 
breathing, and even said, “Mistress,” in a low 
tone. 

“ Asleep,” Mrs. Eastbell heard Hartley say, in 
a whisper, to a second person in the room ; “ she 
will sleep now for hours, I hope. . Still watch her 
till I return, Jane.” 

Jane, an under house-maid, promised faith- 
fully to perform this task, and Hartley went 
down stairs, glad of a respite from long hours 
of watchfulness. She had not intended to stay 
away more than half an hour, but it had been 
a long and anxious time with her, and she was 
tired out. She curled herself upon a couch in 
the housekeeper’s room, and went to sleep im- 
mediately; and the girl she had left in trust, aft- 
er half an hour’s duty, stole away to talk to the 
under-gardener, to whom she was solemnly en- 
gaged to be married next spring. 

Mrs. Eastbell heard her creep out of the room, 
after listening to her breathing, as Hartley had 
done ; and as the soft footfalls of the careless at- 
tendant died away along the landing-place, the 
old lady sat up in bed, alert and eager. New 
strength seemed to have come to her in that 
hour of her suspense : she had brooded upon the 
silence in the house, and the hidden motives for 
it; upon Mary Holland’s words before departure, 
and the evasions of Hartley when she had be- 
come too curious; and the suspicion was very 


close to the old woman that something had oc- 
curred which every body was hiding from her. 
They were overwise, she thought — they had not 
calculated on her ability to seek information for 
herself; she was not so childish and helpless as 
they would have her believe. If she did not act 
for herself, presently they would tell the world, 
perhaps her, that she was in her dotage. 

The blind woman struggled from her bed with- 
out assistance, put her feet into slippers, wrapped 
the counterpane round her shawl - fashion, and 
crossed it once again upon her chest. She was 
too weak to dress, and so they thought to keep 
her there a prisoner, but they were very much 
mistaken ! She presented an unearthly appear- 
ance in that guise, but she was not going to study 
appearances, now that there was a mystery to be 
cleared up. If they would not bring the news to 
her — bad or good news, Heaven knew, but she be- 
lieved that it was bad — she would seek the news 
for herself. She walked feebly at first, but gather- 
ed strength as she proceeded. Accustomed to the 
house, and sensitive of touch, there; was no diffi- 
culty in finding her way to the door, and in pro- 
ceeding down stairs to the hall, and across it to 
the drawing-room, the door of which she opened, 
and passed in. All was silent, all was desolation. 
There was no exclamation of surprise at her ap- 
pearance, no response to her call of “Reuben!” 

— to her wilder cry of “ Sarah !” She was alone 
in the house, she was sure now. Even the serv- 
ants were away. She had encountered no one 
in her progress, and the only sound in the estab- 
lishment was the rustle of the heavy counterpane 
as it trailed behind her on the carpet. 

What could it mean ? She was alarmed now 
at the desertion of her, and reached her thin hand 
toward the bell by the mantel-piece, pausing be- 
fore she touched it, as she remembered that the 
picture-gallery was a favorite room of Sarah’s, 
before Thomas Eastbell and his friend had taken 
possession of it for themselves. She should find 
her grandson there, unless he had run away with 
the rest of them. Perhaps she should find them [ 
all there. She went slowly from the roorn, cross- 
ed the corridor, and went steadily by the longest 
route to the picture-gallery, as it gave her time 
to think, and to prepare for the worst, if the • 
worst had come to her in her latter days like 
this. She reached the little side-door through 
which Mary Holland passed when Reuben Cul- 
wick had called to see his father, at an early pe- 
riod of this history, and here she paused again, 
afraid of the truth at the eleventh hour — if the 
truth were on the other side of the panels — until 
her old spirit re-asserted itself, and she entered 
the room, frightening her grandson almost to 
death, as we have already seen. 

The alarm of Thomas Eastbell recovered from, 
and the oil-lamp on the table lighted by his hand, 
grandmother and grandson sat facing each other 
by the fire-place, where the fire had long since 
died out. It was a weird picture even then, 
though the supernatural had been dismissed from 
Tom s mind, and the reality only was before him. 

He did not like the look of his grandmother hud- 
dled in the easy-chair which he had quitted, with 
the counterpane drawn to her chin, and her strong- 
ly marked face above it — a countenance which 
might have been chiseled out of yellow marble, I 
so grim and deeply lined was it. A dead old 
woman, galvanized into a mocking semblance j 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH*. 


of life, and propped up in the easy-chair, would 
have looked like unto her. 

“Now then— tell me all, Tom,” said Mrs. East- 
hell at last; “if any thing has happened, I can 
bear it.” 

Well, something has happened, grandmoth- 


107 


er, ansueied Ihomas Rastbell, with a wrench. 


-I’m full of life — 


“ What is it ? I’m strong 
can ? t you see ?.” • • • 

. .“1 an a afraid of distressing you too much,” 
said Tom, with great solicitude; “you're shak- 
ing like a jelly.” 

‘Its. only the cold. You’ve let the fire out, 
haven’t you?” 

“ 1 es ; lye been in too much grief to think 
about a fire,” he. said, with a forced groan. 

Grief about what ?” asked the old woman, 
leaning forward so suddenly-’ and eagerly that 
‘Tom drew back, half afraid of her again. 

“ You’re sure that you can keep calm?” 

“Tom, I have been all my life the patientest 
of women — ask ’em at the almshouses — ask any 
body, and they’ll tell you.” 

“ Yes, I know, but — ” 

• “ You’ve a feeling heart, Tom— I’ve always 
heard so— and you will not keep me in suspense,” 
she urged. 

“ No,” replied Tom ;' “I am breaking it to you 
by degrees.” 

“ Breaking what?” gasped forth Mrs. Eastbelh 

“ The truth. I always sticks to the plain truth, 
as best and fairest to us all.” 

* “ Ay, that’s right, Tom, surely,” said the old 
woman ; “ and the truth is that — ” 

She paused, and Tom came out with the truth 
■forthwith. 

“ That Sally’s run away.” 


“ Eh ? — what ?” shrieked Mrs. Eastbell ; “run 


‘away — from me? 

“ Yes, that’s it — wish I may die !” asseverated 
Tom, becoming bolder in his statement as his 
grandmother put implicit faith in every word 
that he uttered. 

“ Run away — forever, do you mean?” exclaim- 
ed Mrs. Eastbell, in her highest key. 

“ Yes, forever.” 

“ Ah ! don’t say any more,” said the old wom- 
an, piteously. “I’ll try and die now, Tom. I 
don’t want to live an hour longer.” 

She raised the heavy bed -covering before her 
blind face, and hid it from him, and Tom was 
alarmed at the wail of misery which followed her 
last words. 

“There, don’t try and do any thing of that 
sort,” he cried. “Pull yourself together, grand- 
mother; don’t give up. ” 

“I was always so fond of Sally, Tom.” 

“ Yes— so was I,” he exclaimed ; “ but if she 
don’t deserve our love, what’s the odds ? I’ve 
been cut up all day, but I’m getting more com- 
posed like. Don’t die — that’s what she wants — 
what she expects, p’r’aps — can’t you see it all ?” 

- The haflds that were muffled in the counter- 
pane were brought down with their covering from 
the face, which seemed harder and sterner now, 
and looked so like her brother Simon’s that any 
one acquainted with the late owner might have 
thought that he had come back in the flesh, and 
was waiting there to be shaved. 

• “Ah, yes; I’m beginning to find out what a 
wicked and ungrateful world it is, Tom,” she said. 

“ That’s right. Cheer up, and look about you. ” 


“She and that Reuben planned this, then? 
They have gone away together, ain’t they ?— gone 
without a word !” 

Thomas Eastbell hesitated in his reply. He 
would have been extremely glad to offer ‘that as 
a solution to the mystery, and turn the tables 
against Reuben Culwick and his sister, but Reu- 
ben might come back at any moment and defeat 
his" machinations. 

“No, they ain’t gone,” he replied ; “ it’s Sally 
and the captain.” 

What ! and Mrs. Eastbell’s high note rang 
out again with startling shrillness, and vibrated 
through the room. 

“ Yes— Sally and the captain — both together 
—wish I may die!” he said again, with great so- 
lemnity. 

<{ How’s that? Go on,” asked Mrs. Eastbell. 
“ I’m calm enough now. I’m iron— stone— had- 
amant, Tom.” 

“ I didn’t know that the captain and Sally knew 
much of each other, though they used to meet at 
my house two years ago, when I took Sally for a 
holiday, if you remember.” 

“I remember. Go on.” 

“ The captain deceived me too. I wasn’t pre- 
pared for it, grandmother ; I — I — I wasn’t in- 
deed. ” 

“Are you pretending to cry?” asked Mrs. 
Eastbell. 

“Iam struggling with my emotion. I can’t 
help it.” 

You can help being a fool. What was such 
a coward and sneak to you, that vou should cry 
about him ?” 

“Ah ! — then there’s Sallv too,” said Tom. 
“\es, yes — but go on. I am past fretting for 
Sally now, and she was more to me than to you. 
Wasn’t she?” said the old woman, passionately. 

1 es, he answered. . 

“Then bear it as I bear it.” 

“ Certainly, grandmother,” he answered, with 
alacrity; “ why shouldn’t I, as you say ? Well, 
they planned to go away. Sally was to get you 
to make a will in her favor, but to pretend to be 
fond of Reuben Culwick all the while, and then 
she was to steal off, and the captain was to get 
away in the morning — as he did, leaving a line 
or two to me, which I found on the table in my 
room.” 

“Read ’em,” was the laconic suggestion, 

“ They’re up stairs, but I can fetch ’em.” 
“Never mind ; what does it matter, if my Sal- 
ly’s gone away ? Ah ! what does any thing mat- 
ter now?” she murmured. 

There was a long silence, until Tom muttered, 
“It matters a great deal to me and my pros- 
pects — that’s all.” 

“Yes'; yes; but I shan’t forget you. Why, lean 
make another will at once, if you will help me.” 

“ I’m not a good hand at writing, but I don’t 
mind trying,” said her willing grandson. 

“Yes, yes — but there’s Reuben too. He has 
been served terrible bad. Where is he ?” 

“ He’s looking for her.” 

“ What for ?” 

“He don’t know yet of the captain’s letter to 
me. He hasn't been home all day. He thinks 
something's happened to Sally.” 

“ Poor fellow!” 

“ Poor fellow ! — cuss him !” added Tom East- 
bell, sotto voce. t 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


108 

“ I’ll wait till he comes back, Tom. He writes 
a will like any lawyer.” 

“ He said — he left word — that he wasn’t sure 
of coming back at all.” 

“ If he doesn’t come back to me — ” began Mrs. 
Eastbell ; then she paused, and looked more like 
her brother than ever. 

“If you could let me write out a few lines. 
I have got a form here — handy too, and that’s 
singler, isn’t it?” 

“Very.” 

“Very singler, as I say too — a merciful dis- 
pensation like. Why not a few lines now, if 
you’ve left every thing to Sally ?” 

“As [ did last night,” said Mrs. Eastbell. 

“Yes, I thought so. And I’m thrown upon her 
mercy — hutterly, 0 ’eaven ! — if any thing should 
happen to you before we were prepared for it.” 

“ I have an idea that I shall live many vears, 
Tom.” 

“Gord bless you — I hope so.” 

“ Many years of misery and blind loneliness 
like this !” 

“Gord bless you again — 1 hope so — I mean, 
I’ll never leave you.” 

‘ 1 Never, Tom ?” 

“ I wish I may die if I do,” he said, clinching 
his promise with his old familiar protestation. 

“ Very well. Write me out a line or two, and 
then call in witnesses as Reuben did. Half to 
Reuben Culwick — nothing to that ungrateful 
girl, to begin with.” 

“Yes, exactly.” 

“And half to yourself; you mustn’t forget 
yourself, Tom.” 

“Thankee, I won’t.” 

“ You have been always true to me, they say. 
Even Sally owned that.” 

. “She couldn't help doing it,” said Tom, ap- 
proaching the table. “And the pictures?” 

“What about the pictures ?” 

“ They’re not worth much ; but I may as well 
have ’em, and keep ’em in the family.” 

“I don’t care what becomes of them,” said 
Mrs. Eastbell, wearily. 

“All right,” responded her grandson. 

“ To-morrow, I dare say, I shall make another 
will. This is only to prepare — to make sure that 
that undootiful gal don’t get rich by my death — 
which isn’t going to happen yet, Tom.” 

“I should say not.” 

He took a printed form from his pocket, and 
began writing in great haste, blotting and smear- 
ing as he went, being clumsy with his pen, and 
unsteady of hand that day. He and the captain, 
prepared for business, had brought down a form 
of will, praying for a chance like this, and, lo ! it 
had come in an hour of depression and incerti- 
tude. It didn’t look a nice will ; but it would 
stand its ground, he hoped, being a natural sort 
of testament in its way, and leaving all things 
fair and square. He knew nothing of the law, 
or will-making ; but this was worth the attempt ; 
and if he had made less blots and spelled a little 
better, the document would have been a trifle 
more respectable. But his grandmother was 
alone in the house, and there was no one else 
whom she could trust. He wished his heart did 
not beat so fast — that he could take things coolly 
like Ted Peterson ; but it was not in him. He 
wished, too, that the words would arrange them- 
selves properly ; but they would not, though the 


law-stationer had helped him all that he could. 
He was hot, and great drops of perspiration 
rolled from his forehead to the paper. He was 
beset by the fear also of a sudden knocking and 
ringing at the outer door, and of all this fading 
from his grasp by Reuben Culwick’s interfer- 
ence. He would maintain his story ; but would 
his grandmother believe him after the nephew 
had spoken out ? If he could only finish — if — 

“ Ha! what is it ?” 

The old woman was standing by his side, with 
two cold hands pressing heavily upon his shoul- 
der, and — great Heaven ! — the gray eyes were 
unsealed and staring at him ! 

“Don’t— go on — with it,” she whispered. “Sal- 
ly wouldn’t — wouldn’t — go away — for good.” 

“I tell you—” 

“ I tell you that — you — lie !” 

She turned, as if to totter feebly to her chair 
again, and he sprang up with a shout of horror 
as she fell back heavily. 

“ Grandmother!” he cried. 

“Tell my — dear Sally — that I — ” 

It was all over, and tragedy took a deeper 
shade unto itself from that hour. Grandmother 
Eastbell was dead ! 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE PRISONER. 

It is time that we follow the fortunes of Sec- 
ond-cousin Sarah, whom we left with her sister- 
in-law in the grounds of Sedge Hill. Taken off 
her guard by Mrs. Thomas Eastbell’s sudden ap- 
pearance, disturbed by the events of the night, 
and ever conscious of the danger which the pres- 
ence of the two intruders in her aunt’s house 
foreshadowed, she followed the woman in good 
faith some distance along the garden paths and 
in the direction of the high-road. 

“ All is safe here, Sophy,” Sarah said at last. 

“I don’t think so — I’m afeard of him here,” 
said the woman, hurrying on still. “Tom 
wouldn’t mind cutting my throat for arf this, j 
You know him as well as I do.” 

A few more yards, and then Sarah Eastbell 
caught the woman by the arm, and checked her 
progress. 

“ We will go no further,” she said. “ Tell me 
what I have to fear from your husband and Pe- 
terson, and I will reward you handsomely.” 

“You was allers kind, Sally, T will say that, 
though you have turned your back upon us since 
they’ve made a lady of you,” she said. “ Is this | 
quite safe, do you think ?” 

“Quite safe.” 

“ It’s dark enough under the trees,” muttered j 
the woman, “but then Tom has cat’s eyes.” 

“Tom is at the house, and nobody comes j 
here.” 

“ Listen, then, as well as you can. I ain’t 
a-going to speak loud for any body.” 

“ I am listening.” 

Sarah Eastbell inclined her head more closelv 
to the woman, who began whispering about her 
husband in a rambling fashion that was difficult 
to follow, until she went suddenly back three 
steps, to Sarah’s surprise, and stood gazing at 
her, or at something near her. 

“What is it?” exclaimed Sarah ; “what — ” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


109 


There was no opportunity to say more, to 
sci earn, or to struggle. Two strong arms closed 
round her, and a cloth, wet and sickly with 
di ugs, was pressed to her mouth and nostrils bv 
a merciless hand that seemed to snatch her at 
once from active life to oblivion. 

It was an incomprehensible world, after that, 
into which she passed, with strange whirring 
noises in her ears, and a terrible pressure on the 
brain, like a soft weight , bearing down all sense 
of reasoning or perception. Amidst it all the 
faint odor of the drugs pervaded the semblance 
of existence that was left her, becoming weaker 
at times, and then growing stronger, and taking 
her wholly from the misery and treachery by 
which she had been betrayed. She remembered 
no more.- She was conscious that she lived and 
bieathed, but it was in a wild dream, of which 
she formed a part. 

She seemed to be moving without any power 
of volition in herself ; there were times when she 
could hear voices ; there was ever before her a 
dense mist, in which once she caught the glim- 
mer of stars, and tried to pray to them; and 
then the drug again, and the awful feeling of lv- 
ing like one dead, with the knowledge at her 
heart that it was only a death-like aspect, from 
which there was no power to wrench herself 
away. 

When she came back to consciousness, it was 
to a life apart from Sedge Hill and those who 
loved her there. She was lying on a bed, with 
Sophy Eastbell dozing by the side of a scantily 
furnished fire. There was a narrow window in 
the side of the room, with some boards nailed 
across it to keep the light of one spluttering can- 
dle from betraying itself to the night. 

The smallness of the room, the meagre aspect 
of the furniture, the dirty boards and blackened 
ceiling, the torn patchwork quilt, the woman 
sleeping by the fire with her head against the 
mantel-piece, were all parts of an old picture, 
which, combined with a hot, close atmosphere, 
with the smell of lead in it, was terribly suggest- 
ive of a past and woful episode in her life. Sa- 
rah supported herself on her elbows and looked 
round her dreamily, the horror in her looks deep- 
ening as she gazed. Was she back in Potter’s 
Court? Had it all been a dream of prosperity, 
with Reuben and Miss Holland and her grand- 
! mother the fleeting figures of the hour, as false 
I as the happiness which had seemed to be dawn- 
ing on her life? This was so like the old home 
that it was possible in the first moments of wak- 
ing to believe that it belonged to her, and that the 
brighter days had only been a fallacy. 

She had not been saved. She was the girl who 
had passed bad money, and had run away from 
Worcester to Tom's home. She had thrown her- 
self upon the bed in one of her fits of despair, 
and had cried and raved herself to sleep, and — 
Then her hand fell on her stiff black silk dress, 
and not upon a ragged cotton gown, and there 
was deeper thought to follow. How her head 
ached ! She clasped it with both hands, as if to 
stay the hammering at her temples, or to think 
the harder between the heavy beats ; and by de- 
grees — it was an effort of some strength, with 
the old sense of confusion coming upon her, and 
rendering her giddy— she thought out the last 
chapter of her life, and where and in what man- 
ner it had ended in this chaos. The woman by 


the fire assisted her in her reverie ; the haggard, 
pinched face was years older than in the Potter’s 
Court days, and years closer to the grave. Sel- 
dom had a woman looked so near death, and 
been moving to and fro among the living, as this 
disreputable fragment of humanity. Years of 
life with lorn Eastbell and Tom’s friends, years 
of penury and crime and hiding from the police, 
had hardened and debased her; she had fallen 
from her level to a lower depth : one could see 
it at a glance. In the thin mouth, firmly com- 
pressed even in her sleep, Sarah Eastbell read 
no sign of mercy. 

Suddenly Sophy woke up, and gave a nervous 
jump in her chair at finding her sister-in-law 
crouched upon the bed, with her great dark eyes 
glaring at her. 

“Where have you brought me? Why am I 
in this place ? Sarah asked, in an eager voice. 

“ You’ve come round, have you ?” said Sophy. 
“ Well, I’m glad of that. Blessed if I didn’t think 
they’d overdone it with their klory- what’s -its- 
name, and sent you bang off to kingdom come 
afore they meant it.” 

“ They? Who are they?" was Sarah’s next 
question. 

“ Ah ! that’s it. I can’t tell you. It’s more 
nor my life’s worth to say too much, and I ain’t 
a-going to say it, Sally. ‘ I ain’t a-going to—” 

Her old cough seized her, cut short her utter- 
ance, and might have strangled her had she not 
risen to her feetUnd shuffled about the room, 
fighting for breath, and flinging her thin arms 
to and fro in the contest. 

“Its the night air, rot it!” she gasped forth 
at last ; “it allers catches me so, Sally. It gets 
on my chest and racks me orful. It’s a wonder 
how I’ve lived on all this time, ain’t it ?” 

Sarah Eastbell was sitting at the edge of the 
bed now, regarding her jailer with eager atten- 
tion. The statement of the woman’s complaints 
did not interest her, in her own anxiety ; she had 
not listened ; she was scarcely back from dream- 
land yet. 

“Why have I been brought here ?” she asked, 
less patiently. 

“ You’ll know in good time, gal. There’s no 
’casion for a nurry or a flurry. Take it cool. 
You’re safe enuf.” 

“Safe!” echoed Sarah. 

“As safe as in your grand ’ouse, to which vou 
never asked one of the family — no, never !”'re- 
plied her sister-in-law. “ That’s where Tom and 
I felt it, for we had taken care of you. We’d 
sheltered you, we’d been mother arid father to 
you in Walworth. You was rich, and we rvas 
crawling on as usual, without a soul to help us 
in the blessed world. S’elp me, not a soul !” 

Sophy took this as a grievance, and stamped 
her foot upon the floor, and raised her voice to 
an angry screech, until the cough caught her bv 
the throat again, when she leaned against the 
wall, with her hands to her side, till the parox- 
ysm was over. 

Sarah Eastbell was standing at the door of the 
room when she had recovered herself. It was 
locked,' as she had suspected. 

“It’s no good your thinking of getting out, 
Sally,” said Tom’s wife; “don’t build on that, 
or harm will happen to you. That’s certain.” 

“Ho you think I am the weak girl whom you 
remember last ?” said Sarah, walking from the 


110 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH.- 


door to the woman's side, and clutching her tight- 
ly by the wrist, “or that I am to be frightened 
by this trick of yours and of the wretches who 
have assisted you ? Do you know in what peril 
you have put yourself?” 

“Oh yes, we all know; it's all been thought 
on,” said the woman, ironically. “ We’re of the 
don’t-care sort, and have chanced it. You can’t 
say it wasn’t well done, Sally.” 

“Give me the key of that door, or you will 
find me the stronger woman of the two!” cried 
Sarah. • . . 

“Don’t ketch hold of my wrist like that,” 
cried her sister-in-law, “or you‘11 be sorry for it. 
You’ll be sorry if I go away, or if any one down 
stairs comes up instead of me, because you are 
too wiolent for my company. You can’t behave 
like a lady, for all your fine flash silk. I have 
only to skreek out, and there are three men be- 
low who don’t stand nonsense sich as yourn.” 

Sarah Eastbell released her hold. Yes, she 
was in danger, and must be cautious. They who 
had brought her to this den had risked a great 
deal in entrapping her, and would risk more rath- 
er than allow her to escape. She must be pru- 
dent and on her guard, not defiant and aggress- 
ive. 

“I ain’t got no key, if you must know,” said 
Sophy, as she returned to her chair and sat down. 
“This is my room, and we’re both locked in to- 
gether’. I’m to take charge of you, that’s all, 
my gal ; and think yourself lucky it’s me.” 

“If this is for money, what money is wanted 
to let me go back at once?” 

“Ah! goodness knows, Sally ! I don’t. We 
must wait till morning.” 

“Why ?” cried Sarah. 

“Tom will be here then, p’raps ; I say p'r’aps, 
mind,” she added, cautiously ; “don’t mistake 
me ; don’t try and get any thing out of me ; it's 
no use.” 

“ Open that window — let me tear it open and 
escape. I will send you to-morrow a hundred 
pounds, and my blessing on you for your help. 
You can’t be against me, Sophy. You can’t wish 
me any harm.” 

“ I shouldn’t be here if I did,” said the wom- 
an, sullenly. “I'm to take care of you — ain’t I 
said so ? I’m your right hand, so treat me square. 
As for that window, silly, it’s forty feet from the 
ground, and there’s the river underneath to sink 
your silks and satins in.” 

Mrs. Eastbell’s bile had been seriously stirred 
up by Sarah’s costly raiment. The silk dress 
was a deliberate affront to her own rags and tat- 
ters, and she resented the offense of her relation 
being better dressed than herself with all a wom- 
an’s bitterness of spirit. 

“ What place is it?” Sarah asked again, won- 
deringly. 

“ A place of bisness,” was the enigmatic an- 
swer. 

“ Coiners — the old gang from Potter’s Court — 
the Petersons,” cried Sarah. 

Mrs. Eastbell did not answer. She warmed 
her thin hands at the fire, and a convenient cough 
prevented all possibility of reply. Sbe was a pru- 
dent woman, and not likely to commit herself 
and her friends by responding to leading ques- 
tions of this character. It was a very good guess 
of Sarah Eastbell’s, though the captain’s presence 
at Sedge Hill might have suggested the fact, but 


she was not going to answer her. “Least said, 
soonest mended,” had been her motto through 
life, and though she hadn’t flourished upon it, 
she had been the only member of “ the school ’ 
who had not seen the inside of a prison. 

Sarah once again attempted to corrupt the 
fidelity of her invalid jailer. 

“Will not money buy your help against the 
wretches who have planned this scheme ?” she 
asked. 

“ Sally,” said Sophy Eastbell, with great grav- 
ity of expression, “ there’s no tellin’ what money 
would do in my case, if I had the hopportunity — 
but it’s unfortunit I haven’t. I won’t deceive a 
relation — I ain’t got a chance to get you out of 
this; I ain’t got arf a chance. And don't say 
4 wretches,’ ” she added, in a lower key. 

“ What are they ?” . 

“ Working-men. You mustn’t hurt their feel- 
ings, for they may be a-listening outside the door, 
you know.” 

A gentle tap on the panels from without made 
good Sophia Eastbell’s remark, and Sarah, still 
rebellious, ran to the door, a caged animal that 
would escape its bondage at all risks. Her sis- 
ter-in-law called out that Sarah was there ready 
to break through, after which notice heavy feet 
were heard descending the wooden stairs. 

“You’d better take it easy,” said Sophy; “you 
must bide your time — it’s no use going on like 
this. There’s been too much pains to get you 
here, to let vou off all in a flash. This has been 
thought on £or weeks, and on’y your going to 
London spiled their arrangements last Saturday. 
Now take it easy — it’s the best adwice.” 

“ Don’t speak to me,” said Sarah, shuddering ; 
“I will not listen.” 

“Nobody wants to speak — nobody wants you 
to listen,” answered Sophy. 

“I hope that I shall not go mad before God 
helps me,” said Sarah, despairingly, as she re- 
turned to her seat by the bedside. 

Half an hour later the hand tapped against the 
door once more, and Sarah started to her feet 


again, with eyes blazing and hands clinched, and 
her spirit of resistance to this injury unquenched 
within her still. Mrs. Eastbell screamed forth 
her warning again, but this time the knocking 
was repeated. 

“ You had better let me see what they want,” 
she said to her captive ; “you’re safer here, I say 
again, than in any other part of the ’ouse.” 

Sarah resumed her seat at this injunction ; the 
woman’s manner was impressive, and though she 
distrusted her, it was probable that the truth had 
been spoken. She could make no effort to es- 
cape in this fashion; it would but resolve itself 
into greater oppression and indignity. She had 
better bide her time, as Sophy Eastbell had ad- 
vised her. 

She glanced toward the door as it was unlock- 
ed from the exterior, but there was only a long, 
lean arm, with a dirty shirt sleeve rolled up to 
the elbow, thrust through the aperture allowed 
bv him who held the key. There was a rush of 
hot air from the darkness beyond — the old hot 
metallic vapor which Sarah * Eastbell knew so 
well ! — and then a basket was passed through, 
and the door closed and relocked. 

“Here’s supper, Sally, said Sophy, with a 
rusty little laugh ; “they are not going to starve 
us.” 


s 

6 








“ I will not eat or drink in this place ” 

It safe enough. You’re not likelv to be 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


Ill 


poisoned. 

. Sarah did not answer. She stared before her 
at the window, and at the rough planks nailed 
acioss it, and wondered what lay beyond them 
in the shape of rescue or escape. There was no 
sleep m her great dark eyes, no peace of mind or 
piospect of rest— the one thought, the one hope 


to stare like that?” cried Mrs. Eastbell at last • 
my flesh creeps to see you, gal. ” 

I he darkness of a blank despair had settled on 
lorn s sister, and there was no reply. Sarah was 
thinking of Reuben Culwick and her grandmoth- 
er and Mary Holland, of their anxiety concern- 
ing her, and of the impossibility of tracking her 
to this haunt. All had been plotted for and 
prepared against by Tom and Captain Peterson 



to get away, was overcoming the dazed feeling 
at her brain. 

Mrs. Thomas Eastbell sat down before the fire, 
with her basket on her knees, and partook of 
bread and cheese and beer, pressing her relative 
by marriage, more than once, to eat and drink, 
and not make a “young fool of herself,” but Sa- 
rah took no heed. 

“ Good Lor’! how much longer are you going 


and others ; they had been weeks in hiding for 
her, Sophy said ; there was a fortune to be made 
they considered, from her capture and her fears 
perhaps from her life. What was to be the 
end of it all, if this were the beginning of an 
elaborate plot against her? If she could onlv 
see her way upon the unknown road a little ! 

How long she thought in this way she never 
knew. Hours must have passed thus, for the 


112 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


candle burned low and was replaced by another, 
which lmd been brought in along with the bread 
and' cheese ; Sophy went to sleep in her old po- 
sition by the. fire until the coals blackened and 
collapsed, and woke her, when she moved about 
the room, coughing and grunting, and muttering 
complaints against the hardness of her life ; the 
gray daylight began to show through the rifts 
and cracks of the planks, and a keen draught of 
air to steal into the rooms, as though an outer 
door were open, and the cold morning breath had 
passed into the house to purify it of its grosser 
vapors. Sarah remembered closing her eyes, for 
an instant as it seemed, overpowered by fatigue 
and benumbed by trouble, and then waking with 
a start to find the light brighter and whiter be- 
hind the window planks, the candle inverted in 
the brass candlestick, and the room devoid of the 
presence of her brother’s wife. She was alone 
at last. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE TERMS OF RELEASE. 

The spiriting away of a young lady from home 
without her consent, and without leaving a clew 
wherewith to trace her, is no light feat in the 
nineteenth century, and Mrs. Thomas Eastbell 
had shown a natural pride in the neatness of the 
achievement. True, the house was five or six 
miles from a quiet city, and was desolate enough 
at all times, the hour was late, the circumstances 
were opportune, and how to profit by the riches 
of old Mrs. Eastbell and her granddaughter had 
been the study of six months ; but still Mrs. 
Thomas Eastbell had something to take credit 
for. It was a bold stroke carried out by desper- 
ate men, and it had succeeded where a more tim- 
id line of policy would have assuredly failed. 
Wha u the final result would be it was difficult 
to surmise, and Tom’s wife was scarcely easy in 
her mind concerning it, though her ill health 
and a fair share of human rapacity had left her 
with but little consideration for others. Sarah 
was to come to no harm — that the Petersons had 
promised — and Sarah was rich enough, and had 
sufficient means at her own disposal, to make 
the whole of them extremely comfortable. It 
would be easy to frighten Sarah Eastbell into any 
thing, every body had thought, until Sarah East- 
bell was a prisoner, and her sister-in-law had 
found her difficult to manage. Time might work 
wonders, but then time was against them, and 
what a day or tw r o might bring forth to their dis- 
comfiture there was no guessing at. It was to 
be a coup d'etat , anyway, with the booty in vari- 
ous directions, meeting never again together — a 
shower of gold, instead of neat little parcels of 
bad money sent with difficulty to friends residing 
in busy towns and cities, and sold at an alarm- 
ing discount. It was the boldest bit of business 
that the Peterson gang had been ever engaged 
in, and the Petersons had been engaged, under 
various aliases, in innumerable shady transac- 
tions. They had come to “fresh fields and pas- 
tures new” by adopting the fair county of Worces- 
ter as a sphere for their operations ; they had 
rented a tumble-down old edifice in a wild part 
of the country, and put on the door the name of 
Jackson, and gone forth to the world as Jackson, 
Button-maker ; they had even made a few ac- 


quaintances in distant villages, and bore a re- 
spectable name among honest, unsuspicious folk, 
who believed in them and their buttons. No one 
visited them, certainly — it was an out-of-the-way 
place, to which nobody was invited, and where 
only button-making was the order of the day. 

A stray native or two had got as far as the front- 
door, but had never been asked to step inside — 
it was all business and no pleasure at Jackson’s. 
No one confounded the name of Jackson with 
Peterson — and it was possibly good policy in the 
captain adopting his own name when he went 
with Thomas Eastbell to Sedge Hill. It kept 
matters clear and distinct, though he had not 
bargained for Sarah Eastbell’s good memory, or 
imagined that he was known to her by sight. 
The cleverest of men make their little mistakes, 
and this shrewd scamp, whose shadow falls on 
our pages for a while, was not infallible. 

It was he who unlocked the door of Sarah’s ex- 
tempore cell at seven in the morning, and stood 
before her, the avowed agent of her captivity. 
Mrs. Thomas Eastbell stepped into the room aft- I 
er him with a few sticks of fire-wood in her lap, 
and proceeded to lay and relight the fire, looking i 
from one to another very critically, the represent- 
ative of her absent husband’s interest in the mat- 
ter, and one who would see fair play on both 
sides. Sarah Eastbell was busily engaged when 
her visitors arrived. She had failed in removing I 
the planks from their stout fastenings, and was 
now boring holes through the wood with the 
points of a pair of scissors that she had found 
on the mantel-piece, with the evident object of 
obtaining a view of the country. She stopped 
as Peterson and her sister-in-law entered, and 
regarded both of them very steadily and watch- 
fully, holding her scissors like a dagger. 

Edward Peterson smiled at the position. 

“ Come, come, Miss Eastbell, you think too 
badly of us,” he said, politely. “ There is no one 
in this pleasant country-house who would hurt a 
hair of your head.” 

“ I am glad to hear it,” answered Sarah. 

“ I have come to apologize for my friends’ 
rough treatment of last night,” he said, reclining 
languidly against the wall, and crossing his gloved 
hands, one with a very glossy hat in it, “and to 
express a hope that you have suffered no incon- 
venience from your temporary withdrawal from 
a home which you are accustomed to adorn. I, 
for one,” he added, with a low how, “should re- 
gret very much to hear one word of complaint.” 

“This is your work, then,” said Sarah, bitter- 
ly ; “ it is as I suspected.” 

“Pardon me,” he said, obsequiously, “but it 
is not my work. It would be an act of justice 
to say your brother’s, perhaps. I do not own to 
any complicity in this proceeding, and I simply 
come here as his messenger.” 

Sarah shrugged her shoulders incredulously. 

“Tell me what my brother wants,” she asked. 

“ Can you not guess ?” 

“Money.” 

“ If you will pardon me for correcting you 
once more, I would say a fair redress for the in- 
jury which you have done him.” 

“I ! — but go on. Let me understand you, if 
I can.” 

“ Your grandmother is rich, and will leave 
you all her money. ” 

“You know that!” cried Sarah. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAII. 


“And your only brother,” he continued — “a 
man of many admirable qualities— will be left to 
drag on his life in indigence, and to die in ut- 
tei abjectness of spirit, without vou assist him as 
fairly and liberally as a fond sister should do.” 

“ If he had waited — ” 

“ Pardon me again, but if he had waited till 
your marriage with Mr. Reuben Culwick, I am 
afiaid that his chances of independence would 
have been exceedingly remote. Thomas has 
not the least confidence in Mr. Culwick's gen- 
erosity. I hurt your feelings,” he added, quick- 
ly; “but forgive me. I am exerting myself to 
lay the truth plainly before you, and to trust in 
your sense of justice afterward.” 

“And you begin by kidnaping me!” cried 
Sarah, scornfully. “Do you think I am a child 
to be deceived by your false show of respect for 
one whom you have helped to drag from her 
home? Tell me what you want.” 

“I do not want any thing for myself,” said 
this unselfish being, with a light and airy flour- 
ish of his hat; “I am wholly disinterested in 
the matter, on the honor of a gentleman. But 
Thomas, who is in difficulties, wants fifteen thou- 
sand pounds.” 

Sarah drew a sudden and deep breath, but did 
not reply. The thin face of the woman stooping 
over the fire peered round at her, horrible in its 
eagerness and greed, and the task at which she 
was employed was ceased at once. 

Captain Peterson continued : 

“ Fifteen thousand pounds only from that im- 
mense fortune which must come to you when old 
Mrs. Eastbell dies, the simple conditions being 
that the sum must be paid at once, as your broth- 
er is very poor, and there is a balance of sixteen 
thousand three hundred and twenty-eight pounds 
lodged at your banker's, in your name, for the 
convenience of a current account. It is an ex- 
traordinarily large sum to keep at one’s banker’s, 
in my humble opinion, and the sooner it is re- 
duced the better. Thomas thinks so too.” 

“ How do you know what money is lodged in 
my name at the bank ?” 

“ Thomas tells me — that is all.” 

“You have picked the lock of my desk, and 
seen the pass-book,” said Sarah. “Well, the 
money is not mine.” 

“It is lodged in your name. You draw the 
checks.” 

“ To save trouble — that is all.” 

“ What is your grandmother’s is yours, and 
you can make use of it without any questions be- 
ing asked,” said Captain Peterson. “ You might 
even say you had lent that sum to Thomas for a 
while.” 

“ Ah! I have been ready at excuses for him 
in my time,” said Sarah, bitterly. 

“Thomas sent me here with your check-book 
— he found that in your desk too, he tells me. 
You have only to draw a draft for the amount, 
and you are free, Miss Eastbell. I promised a 
friend of yours that you should be at Sedge Hill | 
this evening.” 

“Mr. Culwick?” 

“No. Miss Holland.” 

“ Is she in this plot against me?” said Sarah. 
“Miss Holland will tell you every thing to- 
night,” he said, as he drew the check-book from 
his pocket and pitched it carelessly upon the j 
deal table that was there; “I have left every | 

H 


113 

thing for that young lady to explain. It is a 
story apart from yours, and suits not my style of 
narrative.” 

His thin lips closed together for an instant, 
as if with pain or passion — it was a momentary 
change of expression, which did not occur again 
in the presence of his captive. 

“ Have you any thing more to tell me ?” ask- 
ed Sarah. 

“I don’t know that I have,” he replied; “I 
believe I have faithfully performed the mission 
with which your brother has done me the honor 
to intrust me. I have only to assure vou that 
you are in safe hands, and to remind you that 
had your brother Tom been of a less affectionate 
nature, or his friends more desperate, you might 
have been in peril here.” 

He said this in the same light and easy tone, 
but there was an under-current of deep meaning’ 
which Sarah Eastbell was quick enough to take 
to herself. It conveyed a threat in the event of 
non-compliance. But with the morning had 
come to her a vast amount of courage and of 
strength to resist. Now that she understood the 
position of affairs, she was less fearful of results. 

“This money is held in trust for another,” she 
said ; “it belongs neither to me nor to my grand- 
mother. ” 

“ If to Mr. Culwick, we — I should say your 
brother Thomas objects to the title.” 

“Let him!” cried Sarah, with a sudden out- 
burst of anger. 

“ Am I to understand, then — ” 

“That I will not sign one of those checks. 
Yes, understand that for your friend. You may 
kill me,” she cried, .“but you shall not touch a 
penny of Reuben Culwick’s money.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

CLEARING THE HOUSE. 

Captain Peterson, merchant service, received 
the ultimatum of Miss Sarah Eastbell with his 
customary sang-froid. He was a man whom it 
took a great deal to disturb, or who concealed 
his annoyance by an enviable semblance of im- 
perturbability. He took his back from the wall, 
and set his hat carefully on his head. 

“After that I need not trespass further on 
your time,” he said. “ I will communicate with 
Thomas at once.” 

When his hand was on the door, he added, 

“I will leave you to reflect on the matter — 
reflection will bring more prudence to bear upon 
the question. I have taken vou by surprise.” 

“No, 1 have expected something of the kind,” 
answered Sarah Eastbell. 

“There is no occasion for any haste in the 
matter,” said Peterson, coolly : “take a day, two 
days, three days, to consider it in all its bearings, 
and how unjustly you are acting bv a brother 
who has been invariably kind to you. * This room 
is at your service ; you are perfectly safe here. 
Good-morning.” 

He unlocked the door, and went on to the 
landing-place beyond, closing and locking the 
door behind him. On the landing-place he stood 
with the handle of the key pressed to his teeth, 
and with a graver expression on his fresh-colored 
countenance than he had betrayed to her before 


114 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


whom he had laid the conditions of release. Fi- 
nally he went down the rickety stairs, which were 
crumbling to pieces with the house, halted at the 
bottom of the next flight, and listened at the 
right-hand door, as though there were another 
prisoner close at hand. The door was not lock- 
ed, and he opened it softly, and put his head into 
the room beyond, withdrawing it in silence, as 
if contented with what had met his gaze, and 
proceeding down another flight of stairs, to a 
room on the ground-floor, where three tall men 
in shirt sleeves were cowering before a fire. 
They looked round as he entered, and three 
more villainous faces, more horribly ugly and 
atrociously dirty, could not have been discover- 
ed in all the back slums of St. Giles’s. If these 
men were Petersons, Captain Edward had taken 
the good looks of the family to himself. Mrs. 
Thomas Eastbell had been evidently right in her 
assertions of the preceding night — Sarah was 
safer with her than with the gentlemen down 
stairs. 

Edward Peterson took a rush-bottomed chair 
from the wall-side, and placed himself between 
his brothers — a very different man to him we 
have seen up stairs and at Sedge Hill. It was 
a fierce, hard, and merciless face now, to match 
his friends’. 

“ You've done your parts well, boys,” he said, 
in a quick, sharp voice ; “ but there may be more 
to do.” 

“How’s that?” inquired scoundrel number 
one; “we’ve done enough now to get ourselves 
lagged for ten years.” 

“I don’t like the job,” muttered scoundrel 
number two; “I never did.” 

The third blackguard leaned over a huge iron 
ladle, and stirred reflectively at a dull bubbling 
mass of metal, but did not commit himself to an 
opinion. 

“It’s not easy,” said Peterson, “but” — and 
here a blood-curdling oath escaped him — “it 
must be gone on with at any risk. Failure 
means Worcester Jail, success means ten thou- 
sand pounds between us all.” 

He had mentioned fifteen thousand pounds up 
stairs, but he and Thomas Eastbell were keeping 
an extra five thousand “dark.” Edward Peter- 
son did not tell his brothers every thing when 
money was in question. 

“What more is to be done?” asked the first 
scoundrel, who was the worst-tempered and most 
disputatious member of the gang. At school — 
and he had been to a school once in Dublin — he 
was a quarrelsome boy, but dull of learning, very. 

“You will know when it’s necessary,” was 
the short answer. “At present the young lady 
is refractory.” 

“Not frightened?” said the second scoundrel. 

“ Not at all.” 

The three ruffians laid their shock heads to- 
gether, and swore in unison. 

“She will give in before the day’s out,” said 
Peterson, assuringly: “a girl of her age, sur- 
rounded by mystery, must give up. It’s her 
money or her life, as in the dear old days of 
Richard Turpin.” 

He said this with some degree of enthusiasm, 
but his brothers did not rise to it. Two of them 
looked at him vacantjy, and the third went on 
stirring his metallic broth. 

“ To think that you fellows are so near a for- 


tune, and yet take it so coolly!” cried Peter- 
son, reproachfully; “to think that two thousand 
pounds apiece— two thousand pounds! — does not 
warm your sluggish blood a little !” 

“Ah,” said the third ruffian, between his set 
teeth, “we haven’t got it yet.” 

“It’s a risky business,” muttered another. 

“So is making pewter money,” added Peter- 
son ; “ but we have gone at it for years, haven't 
we ? And what have our trouble and risk, our 
dies and galvanic batteries, brought us in, after 
all? Two thousand pence — hardly.” 

“Will the girl sign the check before the day 
is out? that’s the question,” asked number one; 

“ for we can’t go on like this.” 

“ I have said that it’s her money or her life, 
and by Heaven I mean it !” he said, with anoth- 
er oath. “She will be back to-night at Sedge 
Hill, or she will never return again. Mark that !” 

He struck his clinched fist on his knee to give 
emphasis to his words, and his brothers looked 
from one to the other again, and moved restlessly 
in their seats. 

“ Do you think I have planned it all for noth- 
ing?” he continued, “or that I am a man to be 
played the fool with at the last ? Is it my way ? 
Is it Ned Peterson’s style? Do you think any 
woman would prefer to be found in the Severn 
to paying away money that she can afford to part 
with ?” 

“We don’t want to hear any thing about the 
Severn,” said the first scoundrel; “you know 
what’s safe better than we do, but we'll have no 
hand in it. Dennis and I and Mike have talked 
it over, and won’t go further than we’ve done al- 
ready — there !” 

“ You are ready for your share of the money, 
but not of the risk,” observed the captain, satir- 
ically. 

“The money was promised for getting the 
girl here. It’s done,” was the reply, “and a 
nasty job it was. I thought she was dead when 
we were coming down the river, by — ” 

“Poor fellow, you were nervous,” said Peter- 
son, still sarcastic, “and you thought of a gal- 
lows as well, and of your amiable self dangling | 
from a rope in a private yard of the county jail, j 
with the reporters booking your last kicks, and 
making notes for their sensation articles on your 
lamentable decease. ‘A man who came of a 1 
good Irish family, but died chicken-hearted, and 
unlike an Irishman’ — that would have been your 
epitaph, Barney, and much too good for you.” 

“Ah ! you can talk,” said Barney, shrugging 
his shoulders; “you have been so much wiser 
than the rest of us ; but divil a bit of good have 
you or we done, though we have stuck to you , 
through thick and thin. But we can’t be hanged 
for you, Ned — at present.” 

“You fools, have I asked you?” shouted Peter- 
son, springing to his feet ; “you’ve done the work ! 
I’ve set you to do, and I will pay you for it, and 
be rid of you. The money’s safe, and I’ll keep 
my word — as I always do, and always will. I 
don’t want your help — you are in the way, and 
must go.” 

“Go! ’’echoed the men. 

“ This house will be unsafe after to-night, and 
we must vanish before it is spotted. I will be in 
London to-morrow evening, at the old place, with 
your money. Can yon trust me ?” 

“ Yes. But if the girl — ” 


„ “ J sh , a11 be * ith you,” he added, meaningly, 
and afterward you’ll go your wav and I mine 
and a good riddance to the lot of vou ” 

“But—” J ' 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


115 


I have had enough of your company,” he 
cued, as he walked up and down the room with 
his hands in his pockets. “ I will make your for- 
tunes, and have done with you. You sneer at 
the grandest idea I have ever carried out success- 
tully ; you tremble at the consequences like a 
parcel of children, and to-morrow night I leave 
you to yourselves forever. And see how you get 
on without me, that’s all,” he added, less gran- 
diloquently, and far more spitefully. 

The brothers did not reply— they had no ar- 
guments to urge in defense; they were stolid 
' scamps who had plodded on persistently and 
| doggedly in crime, and been ruled by a stronger 
and more audacious mind until this audacity had 
talked of murder. Then they were afraid of 
him, and glad to seize upon a pretext for sepa- 
ration. They believed in his word too, for there 
wei e a few striking antecedents that assured them 
he was in the habit of keeping it. It was time 
to be moving, before Worcester became a diffi- 
cult place to escape from. Ned was right— the 
house might be marked at any moment, and the 
button-makers become objects of distrust, until 
the London police turned up, and claimed them 
as acquaintances. They would be glad to leave 
Ned to himself; they had joined him in a little 
speculation that was out of their line, and its 
novelty had rendered them nervous, as Captain 
Peterson had seen for himself. It was high 
time to be gone. 

One by one these men drifted away from home, 
without a thought of Sarah Eastbell’s safety, and 
with an immense amount of consideration for 
their own. It was not murder that troubled 
their minds so acutely as complicity with it, de- 
tection, and sentence. If Ned would take all 
the risk, he might murder half Worcester for 
what they cared ; but it was out of their line, and 
they would prefer to return to London as quick- 
ly as possible, and wait for the money that had 
been promised them, or the bad news they half 
expected instead. Each man went away with a 
little carpet-bag containing the implements of 
his trade, and left the furniture to the Fates. 
Each man suggested before he went an idea of 
his own for scaring Sarah Eastbell out of her 
wits and her money, but the ruling agent scoffed 
at their devices, and would have none of them. 

It was two o’clock in the afternoon before the 
last of the three men passed out of the house, 
and went away down the narrow lane which led 
from the high-road. 

Captain Peterson stood at the front-door smok- 
ing a cigar. He was in excellent spirits, and he 
waved his hand to the disputatious Barney, who 
was the last to leave, by way of friendly saluta- 
tion at parting. 

“They’re gone,” he muttered, “and they’re 
better gone, whichever way this affair is likely to 
turn out.” 

He lingered at the door meditating on the great 
scheme of his life, and it was not till his cigar 
was smoked out that he seemed to wake again to 
action. The sky was overcast then, and he look- 
ed up at it and prophesied to himself that it would 
lain before the morning. He walked round to 
the opposite side of the house and gazed moodily 


at the water flowing some twenty paces from him 
and at a boat lying on the long grass above the 
river-bank. One glance at the darkened window 
m the topmost story where his fortune lay, he 
thought, and then he returned to the house, med- 
itating on the difficulties in his wav, and of his 
genius to surmount them. He had* been always 
considered a clever and a daring fellow— what 
would they say presently if he should get the 
money * How they would all look up to him 
afterward! What an end there would be to his 
petty scheming life — what a chance of settling 
down in the world even, and trying his hand at 
respectability for a change ! 

He went into the house, and up stairs to the 
first-floor room, wherein we have seen him gaze 
with interest at an early hour of the morning. 

“Bess,” he said, in a sharp voice, and at the 
summons a small, thin-faced child, in a hat and 
cloak, appeared at the door. 

“You have come back, then, father.” 

“Are you ready ?” 

“Yes.” 

Edward Peterson went down stairs, followed 
b.ythe little girl. At the front-door he said : 

1 You were wise to keep to your room to-dav, 
little woman, for they have been very cross, and 
Mrs. Eastbell has been worse than ever.” 

The child shivered. 

“Have you had enough to eat up there ?” 

I should think so!” was the half-cunning 
answer, at which the man laughed heartily. 

1 hat s right, Bess. Look after yourself in 
this world, for no one else will, as the world goes 
round. Now listen to me.” 

The child looked up at him with a wonderful 
amount of intelligence in her sunken eyes. 

“You must find your way to Worcester to- 
night, all by yourself. Two miles from here is a. 
l ail way station — you know it, where the red and 
green lights shine out like big eyes after dark.” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“ You have run about here a good deal, and 
know your way well, and you can find the sta- 
tion. 

“ Oh yes,” replied the child again. 

“You’ll be glad to get away. I’ve been hard 
with you, and you don’t like me much ?” 

“Not much,” was the slow answer, “but—” 

“ But what?” asked Peterson. 

“ the lady— will she shake me when she’s 

cross ? Will she beat me when she’s angry?” 

“She will be very fond of you, and you will 
call her ‘ mother,’ ” said Peterson, very gravel v. 
“Mother — my mother!” 

“ You’ll see soon,” he said. “Now take care 
of that money.” 

He placed some money in her hands, and she 
wrapped it up in a corner of a dirty white hand- 
kerchief and tucked it down the bosom of her 
dress, wrapping her cloak round her afterward 
with all the carefulness and confidence of a 
woman. 

“All right,” she said. 

“ At the railway station ask for a third-class 
ticket for Worcester. Can you remember that ?” 
The little girl nodded quickly. 

“When the train comes up to the platform, 
get in. When they call out ‘ Worcester,’ get out. 

At Worcester a lady, very pretty, and with hands 
full of toys, will be waiting for you at the post- 
office. Ask the way to the post-office like a 


SECOND-COUSIN SAKAID 


116 

woman as you are, and when you see the lady 
under the clock, say, ‘ Father keeps his word : 
I’m Bessie.’ ” 

“All right,” said the child again, with a rare 
amount of confidence in her own comprehension 
of the details, which, however, he asked her to 
repeat, listening attentively to the recital. 

“You’re a clever girl, Bess — you’ve some of 
your father’s cleverness too,” he added, conceit- 
edly. “ Now go.” 

As he stooped toward her she cowered down, 
but to her surprise he put his arms round her, 
lifted her to his face, and kissed her. 

“I’m not going to hurt you ever any more, 
Bess,” he said; “I'm not going to see you ever 
any more.” 

“ fehall I stop with you ?” said the child, slow- 
ly, as he set her down again. 

“ What, not meet the lady, and the toys, and 
the new home for you that I’ve told you of? No, 
no, Bess ; you’ll do better without me, she knows 
— and God knows. There ! be off with you. Re- 
member Worcester Station — the post-office — un- 
der the clock — and ‘ Father keeps his word : I’m 
Bessie.’ ” 

“All right,” was the child’s answer, for the 
third time. She needed no second bidding to be 
off — it had not been so happy a home that she 
should grieve for it or him, and there had been 
a promise of a glorious change for her, and a 
bright child-world. She ran off quickly toward 
the narrow lane, already full of shadow that 
murky afternoon : there was one glance over her 
shoulder at him, and then he never saw her again 
in all his miserable life. He had prophesied that 
it should be so, and lie was right again, as usual ! 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A CHANGE OF PLAN. 

Edward Pkterson was in no hurry to return 
to the house which his orders had made desolate. 
He leaned against the door-post in a thoughtful 
mood, with his eyes directed toward the lane 
down which his child had departed. If he had 
any good feeling in his disposition, it was for 
that little link between him and a past estate, 
wherein he had not been wholly bad. Utterly 
selfish as he was in most things, vet here in this 
wild character was a strange sample of unself- 
ishness. 

“She would have been in my wav,” he said, 
as if in excuse for his own weakness ; then he 
added, “and what a life hers would have been 
with me, too ! ” 

It was dark when he returned to the house, 
and he closed the shutters and barred the door 
very carefully before he sat down by the fire to 
reflect upon his next step. He had been reflect- 
ing on that all day, without seeing his way too 
clearly to the results on which he had set his 
heart — a large sum of money, and a new life 
abroad to enjoy it in. By some means that end 
must be arrived at ; he had succeeded in entrap- 
ping an heiress, a nervous young woman, from 
whose fears a gold mine must be wrung. She 
was obstinate at present, but the night was 
coming on, and she would think of her own safe- 
ty very shortly. She would get weak, too, as 
she had refused food all day, and weakness of 


body would affect her mind and become an ally 
on his side — and Mrs. Eastbell would help to 
keep up the excitement of suspense. 

He would not go up stairs yet awhile — anoth- 
er hour would be of advantage to him, and he 
must wait. The bank at Worcester was shut, 
and there would be no getting money till to-mor- 
row morning — before that time came she would 
sign the check, and remain a prisoner in Jack- 
son’s button factory until time had been allowed 
for him to cash it. That was the end of the brill- 
iant scheme which he had planned out like an 
artist. It was daring, and yet delicate — only a 
master-hand like his could have steered through 
so many difficulties to success. It was a leaf 
out of an old romance, or an Adelphi melodrama, 
only this was life, and he was a superior kind of 
hero — a man of iron nerve, amazing coolness, and 
fertility of resource. They thought in Worces- 
ter bv this time that Sarah Eastbell had eloped 
with him : this was a rare joke, over which he 
and Tom — that fool Tom! — would laugh pres- 
ently. He wished that he had brought his vio- 
lin from Sedge Hill, though ; it would have whiled 
away the time until he had perfected his plan in 
all its details. Music always gave him good 
ideas, and — Destruction ! What is it ? Who 
is it? 

There was a violent knocking at the door, and 
Peterson sprang up, with his hand shaking on 
the back of the chair. Had he trifled with time 
till time had turned against him, and was this 
the end of his grand scheming ? He reached his 
hand toward the candle and extinguished the 
flame as his first resource against an unseen en- 
emy. Then he crept on tiptoe toward the door, 
where the knocking still continued, and where 
his coolness came back to him. 

He was a man of many abilities — for it was a 
feeble woman’s voice that piped through the key- 
hole. 

“Who’s there?” 

“ Is that you, Sophy?” said the voice without. 
“Where’s Peterson? Where’s every body? Let 
me in.” 

“ Tom Eastbell !” ejaculated Peterson. He 
opened the door, and dragged the applicant for 
admittance into the house by the collar of his 
coat — a man drenched to the skin by heavy rain. 

“You muddler !” shouted Peterson; “why 
couldn’t you stop at Sedge Hill ? How dare you 
come intermeddling ? Didn’t you leave it all to 
me ?” 

“ Here — let go my throat — let a fellow speak. 
What are you doing in the dark ? Where are 
thev all ? Is Sarah here ? has she signed the 
check ?” 

Peterson released his hold, and locked the 
front-door again. Tom followed him into the 
room, and sat down shivering by the fire. His 
companion and adviser relighted the candle, and 
held it to his face. 

“Why did you come?” 

“For safety. Oh, Ned, I shall be hanged!” 
Tom cried. “ The old woman is dead, and every 
body thinks I have done it. Here’s a blessed go 
for an innersent man ! I never touched her, upon 
mv soul ; she died right off, bang, in the picture- 
gallery, and it was nothing to do with me. I 
wouldn’t have thought of such a thing.” 

“Dead ? The old woman dead !” said Peter- 
son, surprised again at this avowal. • 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


Oh ! ugh ! yes,” he said, shuddering more 
strongly. “Her eyes opened sudden, Ned, and 
she was off. I shall never forget it. And then 
that beast of a woman, Hartley, came in when I 
sci earned, and said that I had murdered her. I 
was talking her over to make a will, when she 
that s all. Oh! let’s get to London.” 
Tom, said Peterson, with excitement, “you 
roust go back. You must not leave every thing 
to that Culwick. The old woman has died nat- 


“Hush! Keep it quiet; it is an eternal se- 
cret between you and me ; but she sprang out 
ot the boat suddenly last night, they tell me, and 
was drowned.” 

“ Good Lord !” cried Tom Eastbell. “ Let me 
think a bit. This is too much for me. I am 
going mad.” 

“ In a day or two they will find her in the 
Severn, and you will be heir at law.” 

“ What’s that?” 



urally — the doctor will prove that — and you have 
nothing to fear.” 

“ Oh ! haven’t I ? That’s all vou know about 
it!” 

“You accursed idiot! don’t you see that you 
are rich ? — that Sarah Eastbell was only between 
you and a colossal fortune ? — and Sarah Eastbell 
is dead too.” 

“Sarah dead too !” screamed Tom Eastbell, 
in his new excitement. “Oh! don’t say that. 
It can’t be.” 


“The owner of Sedge Hill, and of all the 
money.” 

“ They’ll say I killed the couple of them.” 

“Sarah ran away from home — every body 
knows that — and came to harm by accident. 
There is nothing more natural.” 

“Poor Sally! She was a good sort,” said 
Tom; “and she — she’s dead, then. Thank good- 
ness it was quite an accident — for nobodv meant 
to kill her.” 

“No.” 


118 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ I never even knew what game was up, until 
it was done — did I ?” 

“ No, you did not.” 

‘‘Poor Sally — dead too ! She and her grand- 
mother gone to heaven together, almost arm in 
arm. Yes, it’s too much, Ned! And all the 
money mine, too — that will be too much, too. 
I shall go out of my mind.” 

“Get back to Sedge Hill. Is Reuben Cul- 
wick there?” 

“ He wasn’t when I left.” 

“Get back in haste — at any cost. Say you 
were distracted, and did not know what you were 
doing — that you have been in search of Culwick 
— or a doctor — or the devil. Get back.” 

“Suppose they take me up for killing my 
grandmother; that’s what I'm afeard of.” 

“ Get back ; youare safe. Get back, fool, to 
all the wealth God sends you !” 

Edward Peterson’s excitement was greater 
than Thomas Eastbell’s now. He thrust him 
from the house ; he locked the door after him ; 
he tottered back to the room, and to a cupboard 
where there was brandy, which he drank eagerly ; 
and then he drew his chair very close to the fire, 
and sat with his hands upon his knees, panting 
like a man who had been running for his life. 

Tom Eastbell would be rich — immensely rich 
— if his sister Sarah were removed from all the 
troubles of this world! Tom Eastbell in his 
power — at his mercy for many past offenses — a 
weak fool whom he could rule implicitly, and get 
money quickly by. And yet fifteen thousand 
pounds at one blow might be as well, if he didn’t 
keep his word with his brothers — he who had 
been all his life very proud of saying what he 
meant, and doing what he said. Fifteen thou- 
sand pounds! Well, all depended upon Sarah 
Eastbell’s obstinacy now; and it was time for 
action. It was her money or her life ; and if the 
latter, what excuse should he make to Mrs. East- 
bell, so that that dull lonely house should be left 
to him, and to that deadly purpose to which he 
had steeled his heart in his cupidity ? He would 
drink more brandy and go up stairs. There 
should be no more acting, and no more half- 
measures. 

He drank more spirit, as if his courage even 
now required support by drink ; and then, with 
the light in his hand, he proceeded with a won- 
derful steadiness of step up the stairs. A strange 
specimen of a villain this — for he went into his 
daughter’s room first, and said, “Poor Bess — 
you have gone for good, then!” and walked out 
again, and up the remaining flight, with a very 
sorrowful countenance. He drew the key from 
his pocket, unlocked the door, strode in, and 
then stopped suddenly — a man struck, as it were, 
into stone by his amazement. 

The room was empty ! 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE RETURN. 

Reuben Culwick did not reach Sedge Hill 
till a late hour, when the blinds were down be- 
fore every window of the great house. He did 
not dream of death at home while he had been 
abroad in pursuit of the living, and in the deep 
thought born of his baffled search he strode up 


the broad garden path without being struck by 
the blank aspect of the mansion. He had been 
following phantoms all day ; he had been sent on 
many fruitless quests ; he had searched for him- 
self unavailingly ; he had set others to search. 
He had telegraphed to London early that day 
to John Jennings, and to Lucy, instructions to 
discover for him what had become of the Peter- 
sons after their break-up at Potter’s Court; he 
had sketched forth in a few words the misery 
which had befallen him, and the suspicions which 
he had. He had forgotten in his anxiety that 
he had quarreled with the sister, and was scarce- 
ly friends with the brother ; but then he was 
scarcely the cool matter-of-fact Reuben Culwick 
whom we have ever known. Romance had met 
him at Sedge Hill, and he had discovered that 
his second cousin loved him, and that he was in 
love with his second cousin, oddly, suddenly, and 
passionately, at the very instant that she had van- 
ished, like a spirit, from him. 

In the great hall the new hard truth met him, 
to begin with. Mrs. Eastbell had been dead 
some hours. She had struggled down stairs into 
the picture-gallery, and died there. She had 
been carried to her own room again, and the 
shadow of death was over Sedge Hill. 

“How did it occur? Tell me every thing,” 
he asked, as he went into the picture-gallery, 
and Hartley followed him. The story was re- 
lated, and he listened patiently enough, until 
Hartley became prolix over details, when he 
beat his foot impatiently upon the carpet. He 
beard of his aunt’s death, and of Thomas East- 
bell’s flight — of the suspicion which attached to 
Thomas Eastbell until the doctor’s arrival, and 
that gentleman’s belief in the natural termina- 
tion to the life and cares of the old lady — of the 
inquest that must follow her decease. 

“Where was Miss Holland?” he asked, for- 
getting that his own words had sent one friend 
from the house, until Hartley told him she was 
gone. She delivered Miss Holland's message to 
him also, that Sarah would return that evening, 
she thought, and he looked up, and said, quickly, 

“ She was in this wretched plot, then ! I did 
her no injustice.” 

His thoughts were with the living rather than 
the dead, and he walked up and down the great 
picture-gallery in his old restless fashion, plan- 
ning and scheming for the morrow, and think- 
ing but little of Miss Holland’s promise. Sud- 
denly he quitted the gallery, and went- up stairs 
to Aunt East bell’s room, at the door of which 
Hartley sat, as if the poor old woman needed 
protection still. 

“ Why are you waiting here now ?” he asked. 

“ If you please, Sir, Mr. Thomas Eastbell has 
come back again. He has been looking for you, 
and tor the doctor, he says — and I thought that 
I would sit here as usual. Oh, Sir !”— bursting 
into tears— “she don’t seem dead yet.” 

“Courage!” he answered. “Where is the 
man ?” 

“In his own room — changing his clothes, 
which are wet.” 

We will not disturb him. Have you my 
aunt’s keys?” J 

“ Here they are, Sir.” 

There was a little lamp upon the bracket, and 
be passed into his aunt’s bed-chamber, Hartley 
remaining at her post. It was a solemn mo- 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


ment in his life, which he remembers still. It 
was his last duty to the dead woman, and to the 
wishes of yesternight, before the tragedy of life 
fell on them like a pall. 

lo the living first, for the dead wait patiently. 

He opened the iron box in which the will had 
been deposited, and where a glance assured him 
that it lay undisturbed, and then he closed and 
locked the box again, while the thought came to 
him that it might never be of use to Second-cous- 
in Sarah. 

“ Has that man come back because he thinks 
so too?” he muttered; “is it possible that this 
should be the end of my father’s money — of 
yours, poor worn-out heart, that never was made 
happy by its acquisition ?” 

He drew the sheet from the waxen face lying 
in the bed. How like it was to his father’s in 
its stern rigidity ! What a strange end, and yet 
how common, to all the ambitions of one's petty 
life ! 

“ If I have done you wrong, old soul, by my 
secret envy of your lot, or of your riches, or 
your place here, I pray forgiveness now,” he 
murmured. 

“Amen,” said a deep voice at his side, and 
he turned at the solemn response, for which he 
was unprepared. A thin woman, clad in shabby 
black, stood in the doorway looking at him. 

“ Lucy Jennings !” he exclaimed. 

“You telegraphed to me this morning,” she 
said, advancing; “you asked me many ques- 
tions, and I have come to answer them in per- 
son.” 

“ It was kind of you, Lucy,” he said, holding 
out his hand to her, “ for I am in great trouble. 
See here, too!” 

“I see one lying apart from all trouble, ’’an- 
swered Lucy, coldly, touching his hand, and then 
withdrawing it, sign of a hollow peace between 
them — possibly of her unforgiveness for past of- 
fense — certainly not of any reconciliation : “and 
one might rejoice at that, instead of mourning for 
her loss. Your aunt ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ She who came between you and your rights?” 

“Yes — if rights they were.” 

“We will not speak of them now.” 

They went out of the room together. Reuben 
Culwick locked the door, and gave the key to 
Hartley, after which Lucy and he descended to 
the hall, Lucy calm and grave. 

“ What do you know of the Petersons ? What 
became of them after leaving London ?” asked 
Reuben, eagerly ; “ have you a clew to their ad- 
dress ?” 

“ I think I have.” 

“ How did you find it?” 

“Among my circle of penitents and of poor 
mortals struggling out of crime there are many 
links of life to the dark world. I found friends 
to help me at once.” 

“I am glad. But tell me — ” 

“Patience. If Sarah Eastbell has been lured 
away by these Petersons, the clew to their haunt 
has been already pointed out.” 

“ Heaven bless you, Lucy — but — ” 

“ Don’t bless me,” she said, techily ; “I don’t 
want vour blessings — I think lain above them.” 

“Well, well.” 

“Probably I bring a blessing to you — it is in 
there.” 


119 

She pointed to the door of the drawing-room, 
and he said, eagerly, as he strode toward it, 

“Sarah!” ’ 

“Not she. It is something you lost before 
your second cousin, and took as much to heart 
in losing. It is something that changed you — 
and from which dated your hardness and your 
suspicions of me — first of all. It may be your 
own flesh and blood, for what I know.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“Reuben, I believe you thought I lost her — 
and hated me from that day. See, I have brought 
her back again.” 

“ It can’t be that — ” 

He did not finish his speech. He left Lucy 
Jennings, and went with quick steps into the 
drawing-room, where on the sofa lay a child 
asleep, a poorly clad little girl of five years old, 
with her hat lying bv her side; and a tangled 
mass of fair wavy curls thrust back from her face. 

“ Tots!” he cried, in his astonishment. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

FORGOTTEN. 

Yes, it was the little girl whom Reuben Cul- 
wick had lost in Hope Street — who had been 
part of his life, and of his best life. When she 
had disappeared from his home, something that 
had kept him strong and happy and regardless 
of adversity passed away from him also, and 
changed him very much. The simple-minded, 
whisky-drinking, blundering brother of the stern 
woman in the background had been very close 
to the truth when he said one night that Reuben 
had loved the little waif from the sheer necessitv 
of loving something with the strength of his fuil 
heart. 

“ Tots !” Reuben said again in a lower key, 
and looking back at Lucy Jennings. “ It is she 
— isn’t it ?” 

“ Yes ; there is no doubt of it.” 

“ How she has altered !— how she has grown ! 
— how pale she is!” said Reuben, leaning over 
her and kissing her. 

“ Don’t wake her. The child is tired out.” 

“ There’s the little mole on the left cheek, too,” 
said Reuben. “It’s dear old Tots. Strange 
that she should come to me in the midst of so 
much trouble, and I should find her in this house. 
Tell me all about her, Lucy.” 

“ I met her in the streets of Worcester, near 
the post-office. It was raining hard, and she was 
crying because a lady had not come to fetch her. 
Her father had sent her to Worcester, she said.” 

“Did she recognize you ?” 

“No: two years make a vast difference in 
things. I had died out of her recollection and 
her liking, as I have died out of many people’s.” 

“Will she l'emember me ?” 

“ It is unlikely — it is impossible.” 

“She was very young when she went away, 
poor Tots,” said Reuben, sadly regarding her. 
“Yes, I suppose it is impossible.” 

“ She came with me in all confidence. I told 
her that I would, take her to her friends, and she 
believed me.” 

“You are very kind, Lucy,” said Reuben. 
“ How is it that you do me these good services, 
and yet dislike me so much ?” 


120 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“I dislike the pride and anger in you,” an- 
swered Lucy, “and they have turned me against 
you.” 

“I am sorry.” 

“ I have had my great work to think of lately 
— not of the petty differences of eighteen months 
ago.” 

“ What, are you writing a book too ?” 

“A book! — no.” cried Lucy, with supreme 


“It was of danger to one you saved two years 
ago — to one you loved.” 

“I never loved Sarah Eastbell,” was the flat 
contradiction here; “I never liked her.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know; I can’t tell,” was the hasty 
reply. “I have never stopped to consider why 
she did not please me — why in many things she 
was opposed to me.” 



contempt. “ I speak of my work of saving souls 
among the London poor.” 

“ I had forgotten.” 

“And I have forgotten them in coming to 
this place,” said Lucy. “I have done wrong, 
Heaven forgive me ! I did not think,” she add- 
ed, with more excitement, “that any thing you 
could say or do would affect me for an instant 
now; but when you telegraphed of danger, I 
thought that I might be of use.” 


“ And yet yon — ” 

“Don’t say any more. I dislike to talk of 
these things now,” she said. “I have learned 
to value this world as nothing in the balance 
against the riches of a world to come.” 

. Yes > she had degenerated, or risen, to fanati- 
cism, thought Reuben as he watched her eves 
blaze with the fiie that was in them. She was 
a woman with a mission — always, in Reuben Cul- 
wick’s opinion, an objectionable female, if the 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


mission were paraded too frequently before every- 
day folk. He was sorry, but he was never again 
going to be angry with her, or to sting her with 
a careless word. She was to him an incompre- 
hensibility — she would ever remain so; but he 
understood that her life was a sacrifice to others 
and he respected her. 

Lucy, he said, “ I don’t think there is any 
forgetting this world while we have duties in it. 
lour duty has brought you to Worcester— the 
old friend whom I can trust, and who I thought 
might aid me in an hour of tribulation. We 
have both said hard things of each other in our 
da y we never could agree together 5 but we 
nave both believed, I hope, in each other’s hon- 
esty and good faith. We clashed fearfully at 
last, because you grew more severe upon my 
faults, and because I had become a disappoint- 
ed man, to whom extra severity was an affront ; 
but, Lucy, for all past words of mine, for all past 
actions that have in any way affected you, I hope 
you will forgive me.” 

Lucy Jennings tried to look hard at him, to 
show her firmness and her calm disregard of these 
mundane matters ; but she failed for once. She 
was only a woman, and Reuben’s words touched 
her heart, and the past life in Hope Street, sor- 
did and unpoetical as it was, was a memorable 
episode that only the grave could close over. 
She would have shed tears some time since, but 
she was strong enough to resist them now, though 
they welled to her eyes. 

“I am glad you are sorry,” she murmured. 
“You were very hard and cruel, Reuben.” 

“Ay, I think I must have been,” he replied. 
“I wasn’t myself; but you always would have 
it that I was fretting after my father’s fortune, 
and it was nothing of the sort.” 

“ What was it, then ?” asked Lucy, inclined to 
argue the question afresh. 

“My ill luck with my books, for one thing, mv 
second-cousin Sarah, for another. And now teil 
me what plan you have adopted to discover these 
Petersons — whether you think that — ” 

“ Tell me first, are you going to marry Sarah 
Eastbell ?” asked Lucy, interrupting him. 

“ God willing, I am. But Sarah is away ; the 
best and most unselfish woman in the world is 
set apart from me, Lucy, at the instant that I 
discovered the value of her love.” 

Lucy was not to be touched again by any fer- 
vor in the remarks of Reuben Culwick ; on this 
occasion the sharp face seemed to grow sharper, 
j and the thin lips to close more firmly. 

“ She asked you to marry her, I suppose,” 

, Lucy Jennings said, almost contemptuously. 

“On the contrary, I asked the poor woman 
lying so still up stairs now permission to address 
her granddaughter.” 

“ What could you see in Sarah ?” 

“A rare unselfishness and a deep affection, I 
have already said,” said Reuben; -“is not that 
enough ?” 

“Along with the money — yes.”' 

“ If Miss Jennings will take the trouble to 
consider — ” began Reuben, sternly. Then he 
started to his feet, and cried, “No, Lucy, I will 
not utter a word to wound you again. Say what 
you will of me, and think the worst of me and 
mv actions, as you may. You are here as my 
friend, to assist me, and I am silent.” 

Lucy Jennings rose and stood by his side. , 


121 

“Still, I can not understand why a thought- 
ful, educated man should care for a child like 
her,” she said. 

“ Or a child like Tots,” he added. 

“ Yes — add that if you will.” 

“After my mother's death, Lucy, I had only 
those two. fugitives to look up to me— to believe 
no wrong of me— and I gave them verv readily 
and gratefully all the affection in my heart. It 
was love for love,” he said. 

• u° n ^ dlose two • Well, Sir,” she answered, 
with strange coldness, “you were luckv to have 
two to love you, although one was a" baby”— 
pointing to Tots — “ and the other a voting wom- 
an who, in her prosperity, assumed ‘the manner 
ot the patroness.” 

“ lou talk in this way of one whom you have 
come to help!” said Reuben, sadly. 

“I was never afraid of the truth.” 

“ No, but you will make others afraid of it, if 
tins is it. But there ! I am silent, ” he said, as she 
drew herself up, rigid and grim, at his last taunt ; 

I will not quarrel again with you— I will for- 
ever call you my best friend, if you will show the 
way to Sarah Eastbell’s safety.” 

“ You are too romantic for your vears, Reu- 
ben,” said Lucy in reply, “but I will not trouble 
you to keep your temper with me. See, the child 
is waking.” 

Reuben turned to the little girl, who had strug- 
gled into a sitting posture on the sofa, and was 
looking at them, all eyes — all blue eyes too — as 
Tots had looked at him in Hope Street years 
ago. 

“Tots,” he said, advancing to her — “Tots 
old lady, don’t you know me?” 

His manner was too impetuous, and his quick 
strides toward her were so symbolical of punish- 
ment for some offense which she in her ignorance 
had committed, that the child sprang up and ran 
to Lucy Jennings, burying her face in the skirts 
of her protector. 

“The child is frightened of you,” said Lucy, 
calmly ; “let her be a while.” 

Reuben was dismayed. 

“ Why, Tots, it’s Uncle Roo,” he cried— “ old 
Uncle Roo — you know!” 

The child still clung to Lucy's skirts, and 
would have none of his affection. He gave up, 
and walked away to the window. 

“You see how this kind of love lasts,” said 
Lucy, bitterly, “and yet you value it so highly.” 

“ Because it set a high value upon me,” he an- 
swered, quickly. 

“ It is dead.” 

“ It will live again— it will come back.” 

“And if not,” Lucy answered, “there is your 
second cousin to console you.” 

Reuben could not bear this last taunt ; from a 
womaq whose mission was to preach peace on 
earth and good-will among men, it was strangely 
uncharitable. He swung round with a dark look 
on his face, and Lucy knew the warning and 
drew herself up, ready for one more war of words 
with him. 

The opening of the door cut short the clash of 
arms. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


122 

CHAPTER XXV. 

UTTERLY CONFOUNDED. 

It was Thomas Eastbell who advanced into 
the room with a forced and swaggering air, and 
whom Reuben Culwick and Lucy paused to con- 
front. Tots clung still to the skirts of Lucy Jen- 
nings, with her face hidden in the folds. 

“ Oh ! you’re back, ” he said to Reuben ; “ of 
course you know what has happened since you’ve 
been away?” 

“ Yes,” answered Reuben, laconically. 

“I’ve been looking for you every where — I’ve 
been running after the doctors — if we had a 
plague in the house, I think people would stop 
in it more than they do, v said Tom Eastbell. 

“ Have you heard any thing of Sally ?” 

“Your sister is expected home presently.” 

“Eh ?” 

Mr. Eastbell’s lower jaw dropped, but it was a 
temporary relaxation of the muscles, for he laugh- 
ed and said, 

“ I am glad to hear it. Didn’t I tell you that 
it was one of her fly-away touches? Didn’t I 
say all along — Who’s this ?” 

“ My name is Jennings,” said Lucy. 

“ Oh ! you’re Jennings. I have heard of you, ^ 
but I don’t know that we have ever met before.” 

“Probably not.” 

“May I ask what you want, marm, now you 
are here?” asked Thomas. “ You’ll excuse me, 
but sfnce my grandmother’s death and Sally’s 
disappearance — and until Sally returns — I con- 
sider I am the head of this establishment.” 

“I am compelled to answer your questions, if 
this is a true statement,” said Lucy. 

“ Yes, I should think you were. True, indeed 
— that’s a good one ! Why, you don’t know 
that my poor grandmother killed herself think- 
ing about me,” he said. “ She was worried — 
she wanted to leave me all her money, and she 
died of disappointment because she hadn’t time 
to finish her new will.” 

He addressed Lucy Jennings, but he was 
watching the effect of this announcement upon 
Reuben Culwick from the corners of his eyes. 

“It is Heaven’s mercy that your grandmother 
died, then,” replied Lucy to him. 

“What?” 

“ I have been making inquiries concerning you 
to-day, and I have heard of nothing to your ad- 
vantage.” 

“Who cares what you have heard ?” he shout- 
ed. ‘ ‘ What business was it of yours to make in- 
quiries ?” 

“You and one Edward Peterson were in this 
house, from which your sister has disappeared,” 
said Lucy. “Among my congregation there 
were two or three who remembered the Peter- 
sons, and thought they could be traced. We are 
searching for them now under the name of Jack- 
son.” 

Thomas Eastbell put one hand to his shirt col- 
lar ; his throat had begun to swell suddenly, and 
he felt uncomfortable. 

“ Oh !” he said, “if that’s it, you’re on a 
wrong — ” 

Tots had looked round at the sound of his 
voice some moments since, but he had not no- 
ticed her till then, and then his voice utterly de- 
serted him, and his eyes protruded in his amaze- 
ment. He did not ask any further questions of 


Miss Jennings. The child belonged to Edward 
Peterson. He and his wife had had the charge 
of her once, and grown tired of her, and lost her 
in a Camberwell back street, where Reuben had 
found her ; and Edward Peterson had discovered 
her a year or so afterward, and taken her from 
the Jenningses; but he could not stop to explain 
that now. A few days ago that child was at 
Jackson’s button factory, and she must have 
come to Sedge Hill with the news. He was 
caught in a trap again. He knew it had not 
been safe to return, but that fool Peterson had 
persuaded him. They knew all, and were get- 
ting him into a line by degrees ; every thing 
might have been discovered, for what he knew 
to the contrary. He must “cut it” at any risk. 
He would come back again if all were safe, but 
he could see Worcester Prison very plainly in 
the distance now. He backed to the door, pre- 
pared for a rush in his direction from that brute 
of a fellow with the beard. But no one moved, 
no one uttered a word to bid him stay and con- 
fess his rascality. It was remarkable ; but per- 
haps the police were round the house by this 
time, and they felt that they were sure of him. 
What had happened, he wondered, to bring Pe- 
terson’s daughter to Sedge Hill. Had she blown 
upon them ? — a child of that age ! The Lord 
forgive the depravity of a baby like that. 

He went into the passage and closed the door 
behind him. He took down a hat from the tree 
in the hall and put it on. It was Reuben’s hat, 
and went over his eyes, and was altogether a bad 
fit ; but the sooner he was off the better, and 
where he had put his own hat he could not rec- 
ollect in the present confusion of his faculties. 
All that concerned him materially was his own 
personal safety ; if Sally was dead, the child 
might have brought the news — might have seen 
him at the factory two hours ago — and he might 
be hanged before he knew where he was. It 
was a dreadful business altogether : why had he 
ever embarked in it ? Why had he not trusted 
to his grandmother’s generosity and Sally’s kind- 
ness, and come in a quiet way to Sedge Hill ? 
Why had he let that Edward Peterson talk him 
over all his life ? 

He went on tiptoe to the front-door and drew 
back the heavy bolts and the big lock. He open- 
ed the door, and let in the wind and rain — and 
Sarah Eastbell ! 

Yes, it was his sister, with a shawl over her 
hair, and her face, white and wild, peering from 
it. She had come back — she knew all — he was 
done for ! 

“Tom, you villain!” she shrieked forth, at 
first sight of him. 

Thomas Eastbell went down on his knees at 
the same moment as Reuben came from the 
drawing-room. 

“Oh, Reuben ! take care of me,” Sarah mur- 
mured, as she went fearlessly to the friendly shel- 
ter of his arms; “I have no one else.” 

“ She could never take care of herself,” mut- 
tered the inflexible Lucy, as she followed Reuben 
Culwick into the hall. 

It was as Mary Holland had said, and Sarah 
Eastbell was back in her own house. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


123 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

the bad news. 

The great conspiracy was at an end, and Sa- 
rah Eastbell had baffled the conspirators. All 
that had been planned by Captain Peterson, and 
which Saiah s absence from Sedge Hill had ren- 
deted nugatory — all the new scheming to which 
that absence had given rise, and which was set 


she was alive and well was only to cast fresh 
tribulation on him ; for life meant discovery of 
the plot, and punishment to those who had acted 
treacherously toward her. 

The Petersons might be already in prison, and 
he had walked into his own trap when the chance 
had been open for his escape. It was like his 
luck. He had never known what was best for 
himself, with all his cleverness ! 



in action with Sarah’s return— had collapsed at 
the eleventh hour. Sarah was neither dead nor 
a captive, and Tom Eastbell was as far removed 
from prosperity as he had ever been. 

He had believed that Peterson had told the 
truth, and Sarah’s death had left him heir to the 
estates, until his sister faced him in the hall; 
where he thought at first that it was her spirit, 
pale, revengeful, and terrible. To know that | 


“I — I never meant — ” he began. Then he 
burst forth with, “Oh, I am so glad that you’ve 
come back, Sally ! — so glad that you ain’t dead !” 

The door remained open to the night, where 
the rain fell still, a heavy down-pour, with but 
faint hope of cessation till the morning. 

“ Were you waiting for the news of my death, 
then ?” asked Sarah, with indignation. 

“I — I did not think that. Oh no! — but — ” 


124 


SECOND-COUSIN SABAH. 


Sarah Eastbell would hear no more. She was ' 
mistress of the position, and stronger than he 
now. 

“There is your world, Tom,” she said, point- 
ing to the door — “beyond this house, and any 
love of mine, from this day. You could not 
trust me ; you set a snare for me, and called in 
rogues and villains to assist ; you begrudged me 
my prosperity and my life. Now go.” 

“But—” 

“I will not hear you,” she cried, impatiently. 
“Thank Heaven that I am merciful enough to 
let you go away.” 

“What have I done?” he said, as he rose 
from his knees; “who can prove any thing 
against me ? If the Peter — ” 

Lucy Jennings's hard voice cut short his de- 
fense, and he backed from the woman to the 
open grounds beyond the house with every word 
she hurled at him. 

“Tom Eastbell, some hours ago, in London, 

I gave information to the police where the Pe- 
terson gang were likely to be found — where you 
were, and in what way you were connected with 
them. You have not any time to lose.” 

He lost no time accordingly. In the darkness 
and the rain Thomas Eastbell disappeared at 
once, conscious that the game was over, and he 
was trumped out of play. If Sarah could for- 
give him all past trespasses — and that seemed 
doubtful — there were other matters, foreign to 
her and to the thread of this eventful history, 
which necessitated his immediate retreat. He 
vanished away, a thief to the last — for he de- 
parted with Reuben Culwick’s best hat rammed 
over his eyebrows. Sarah turned again to Reu- 
ben, her watchful protector, who would keep her 
forever in his sight now ; and as the door closed 
she linked her hands upon his arm. 

“Take me in, please; I am tired out, Reu- 
ben. 1 have fought hard to get home!” 

He led her very tenderly and carefully to the 
drawing-room, where the presence of Tots came 
as another surprise to her. 

“You here!— is it you?” she said, wonder- 
ingly, as she sat down in the big arm - chair 
which her grandmother had occupied for the last 
time on the preceding night. 

“Do you remember her, then— when you lay 
ill at John’s house?” asked Lucy. “ I thought 
I kept the child away from you.” 

“I saw this child some hours ago,” said Sa- 
rah. “ It was she who brought a duplicate kev 
of the room in which the Petersons had confined 
me. I bribed a woman who was with me,” she 
added, after a pause— “ah ! forgive me, Reuben ; 
it was with your money, too! — to let the child 
unlock it and set me free.” 

“ Now God bless Tots !” cried Reuben ; “ she 
brings a blessing back at her first step toward us.” 

“She brings your second cousin back,” said 
Lucy Jennings, calmly, and by way of a correc- 
tion. 

“Tell me how it happened— how it was that 
you disappeared from all of us so suddenly, ” said 
Reuben, impatiently. 


! He did not regard Lucy Jennings. He drew 
. his chair to his cousin’s side, took her hand in 
his, and gazed eagerly into her face. She might 
fade away again from his life, if he did not make 
sure of her. 

“Yes, yes,” said Sarah, in answer to his ques- 
tions ; “ but grandmother — tell me first, is she not 
very anxious about me ?” 

Reuben stopped for a moment in dismay. 
There were stern facts on both sides, and the 
death of the poor old woman was one of them. 
He looked toward Lucy Jennings, not for help 
in this crisis which there was no evading, but to 
arrest her blunt announcement of the truth which 
he feared would at once escape her. But Lucy 
Jennings, though fond of plain-speaking, was 
woman enough to perceive the danger of a sud- 
den statement of all that had happened at Sedge 
Hill since Sarah had been away. 

“Your grandmother is not anxious, Sarah,” 
said Lucy, in a low tone. 

“Is she ill?” 

“No. She is not ill now.” 

“Is she — Ah! you are keeping something 
back! Tell me, please,” she said, in great ex- 
citement, “where she is. She is not dead — oh ! 
she has not died without a word to me !” 

“She is in God’s hands — and God keep you 
strong to bear the loss of her,” said Lucy Jen- 
nings, solemnly. 

Sarah Eastbell closed her eyes, and sank back 
in the chair like a dead woman. Reuben, a man 
wholly uncharitable — as men will be in stages of 
excitement which strike home to them, and rob 
them of their self-possession — turned upon the 
poor preacher, who, in this instance, hud done * 
her best at least. 

“There, you have killed her! Are you satis- 
fied now ?” he shouted at Lucy Jennings. 

“I am not satisfied with this world, or with 
you,’ was the cold answer, as she bent over Sa- 
rah and loosened the fastenings at her throat. 
But Sarah Eastbell had not fainted; she was 
only stunned by the truth, and she sat up the 
instant afterward, eager for the whole story, and 
looking piteously from one to another. 

It was not in Reuben’s power to break the 
news to her, after all, and he left it to the wom- 
an whom his impatience had wounded. 

“ Tell her, Lucy ; it is beyond me,” he said. 

The tragedy of Sedge Hill was over, and he 
could not dwell upon its details with Sarah East- 
bell for a listener. In the early moments of a 
great loss he knew too well how vainly conso- 
lation seeks to find its way to the afflicted. He 
had lost a mother under hard circumstances of 
life ; and his father had died in enmity, and he 
had not done his best to become friends with him 
at the last ; Lucy Jennings had told him that, as 
well as his own heart, which had been too proud 
to speak out. He had been in the wrong — he 
had given way, like other men, when trusting too 
much to his own strength; and he felt suddenly 
Ae iy weak and child-like, sorry for the past and 
foi the present, but looking hopefully forward to 
| a future beyond the natural griefs of that night. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


125 


BOOK THE THIRD. — MANY CHANGES. 


CHAPTER I. 
the unlucky house. 

Time brought resignation to the heart of Sec- 
ond-cousin Sarah. A few weeks after the death 
of old Mrs. Eastbell it was possible to believe 
in content, and look forward to happiness. Aft- 
er the storms of the latter days had come peace 
to Sedge Hill, and more than one talked san- 
guinely of life’s troubles lying back from their 
path. The hill was not steep ; on the rest of the 
journey lay no pitfalls, doubts, or misconcep- 
tions ; only a few steps away, counted by the 
beats of full hearts, was surely the brightness 
and clearness of a day in which no sorrows could 
live ! 

Reuben Culwick was still at Sedge Hill, vis- 
itor and sentinel, and Lucy Jennings had not re- 
turned to her flock in the dark London streets. 
Reuben wrote his articles in Worcestershire, and 
Lucy’s work for a while, and against her will, 
was left to earnest, red-hot deputies. Sarah 
had given up on the night of her return, and 
after the news of her grandmother’s death ; she 
did not fall ill, but she gave way, and grew grave, 
despondent, and nervous, until the inquest was 
over, and “Died by the visitation of God” was 
duly recorded by twelve wise men. Thomas 
Eastbell was no witness at the inquest: he had. 
passed away from Sedge Hill, and though the 
inquest was once adjourned for his appearance, 
he did not condescend to return and give his evi- 
dence. Hartley, who had entered the picture- 
gallery at the moment of Mrs. Eastbell’s death, 
and the doctor offered sufficient testimony as to 
the natural decease of the old lady; andit was 
generally known in Worcestershire that there 
were valid reasons for Tom Eastbell’s absence 
without attributing to that gentleman the delib- 
erate murder of his grandmother. It was possi- 
ble that Sarah in her heart had feared the ver- 
dict of a coroner’s jury, had even suspected the 
worst, judging by the act of which she had been 
nearly the victim, and the antecedents of her 
brother’s life. From the trials by which she had 
been surrounded she had hardly emerged — and 
this old woman had loved her very much, both 
in her poor and rich estate. 

Still time brought its natural relief, and its 
fairer coloring to life. Grief can not lie long at 
the heart of the young, and Reuben Culwick was 
at Sedge Hill, a different man from him whom 
she had seen in London lately. 

It was the Reuben of the old Hope Street days 
— not the ascetic who had shut himself from his 
kin, and offended Lucy Jennings — it was Reuben 
Culwick who thought of others and had belief 
in others again. His misanthropy had been en- 
gendered by many accidents, which he now con- 
descended to explain, and at which explanation 
Sarah clasped her hands, and Lucy Jennings 
elevated her eyebrows. 

His father’s death had brought him remorse 
for his share of disaffection, and Reuben had set 
himself in a worse light than he deserved ; then 
there had followed the misery of debt, and the 
greater misery of what he had considered neg- 
lect, until Sarah Eastbell had stolen like a vision 


to his cell, and brought him back faith in human 
kind. It was not the loss of his father’s monev 

for he had always been prepared for it, he said 
' though he had tried hard once to place him- 
self in the worst light, and to set his second-cous- 
in Sarah against him, by calling himself a mon- 
ey-loving prig ! When Sarah had not believed 
in his self-disparagement the man’s heart had 
softened more rapidly than he had bargained for. 
Ihere was more truth and less ingratitude in the 
world, and his second cousin had saved him. 
Nay, more, his second cousin had loved him, and 
all the past sank back like an ugly dream, after 
that discovery, and the future became full of 
golden promise. This was the end, he thought. 
He should marry Sarah Eastbell, and live hap- 
pily ever afterward. Happy and rich ! It was 
the riches that furrowed his brow, though, occa- 
sionally : the shadow of the money fell across 
the path of his rejoicing— the eternal shadow of 
his father’s money ! 

If he cotdd only prove that he had never cared 
for it, if Sarah would not believe that she added 
to his happiness by bringing with her the wealth 
of which his father had deprived him, if the un- 
selfish thought of transferring to him his inherit- 
ance did not add to her happiness so much, he 
should have been glad — man being a selfish and 
proud animal, that is never at rest until the 
smirk undertaker measures him for his last free- 
hold. 

Sarah Eastbell would discourse too much upon 
her own unworthiness when she grew stronger, 
and would dwell too eloquently upon the riches 
which she would bring him on her marriage-day. 
They were engaged to be married, then ; they 
were betrothed, and had no secrets from each 
other ; they could talk of their future together 
in all that blessing of perfect confidence which 
comes once to most men, and lifts them for a 
while — ah! God help them! for what a little 
while! — above the selfishness of daily life. 

Even the present condition of things could not 
last ; and before Sarah Eastbell had given much 
consideration to it, Lucy Jennings, severe moral- 
ist, had called attention to the position. Reuben 
Culwick was in the garden then with Tots, and 
Lucy and Sarah were at the window, glancing 
toward them occasionally. Reuben had won all 
the child’s love back, without winning back one 
reminiscence of Hope Street. The child had 
faith in him, and had found a strange tenderness 
and kindness rising suddenly in a path of much 
privation, and she had turned to Reuben with 
the instinct of old days. 

“This can not last, Sarah,” Miss Jennings 
said, so suddenly that her listener jumped again. 

“What can not last, Lucy?” 

“This kind of life. When is he going away?” 

‘ ‘ Who ? Reuben ?” asked Sarah Eastbell, turn- 
ing pale at the inquiry. 

“Yes.” 

“Going away from here, you mean?” added 
Sarah, as if hardly able to understand the sug- 
gestion in its entirety. 

“You keep him from his work — and you are 
strong enough to let him return to it.” 

“ I thought he might remain here, master of 


126 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


the house— that there was no occasion for him 
to go away ever again,” said Sarah, half thought- 
fully, half sadly. 

“Do you mean, to remain with you till your 
marriage?” asked Lucy, sharply — “you two alone 
together ?” 

“Oh no — the world would not call that fit 
and proper, Lucy, any more than you would,” 
replied Sarah; “but I thought that he might 
take his place at once in his father’s house, while 
I went away with you. ” 

“ With me?” repeated Lucy. 

“Till he came to fetch me for good — a year 
hence, say, when the grief has gone further back.” 

“ Have you suggested that?” 

“No.” 

“Don’t, or you’ll begin to quarrel,” was the 
reply. “ His is a pride which you do not un- 
derstand any more than you understand him. ” 

“ Not understand my Reuben ?” 

“ Your Reuben does not understand himself,” 
said Lucy, tartly ; “ he is lacking in stability — 
there is no religion in him — he gives way under 
trouble like a child.” 

“You are thinking of the past, which he has 
explained.” 

“As well as he can,” said Lucy, moodily. 
“ Do you make out his explanation ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Sarah, blushing, “ I fancy I 
do.” 

Had he not said that the thought of her in- 
gratitude had cast him wholly down, at a time 
when he was in adversity, and his father’s death 
was on his conscience, and in these golden days 
was she not ready to believe him ? 

“I don’t want to hear it,” said Lucy, with a 
little jerk of her head ; “ and [ shouldn’t believe 
it, I dare say, whatever it is.” 

“Ah, Lucy, if I didn’t know what a good 
woman you are, how your hard words would pain 
me!” . 

“ I am only striving to be good — I am a mis- 
erable sinner, Sarah,” announced Lucy, softened 
somewhat by her companion’s words, and suf- 
fering two fair arms to steal around her neck ; 
“the world is full of miserable sinners too, and 
my mission is among them. I have neglected 
their interests, and turned my back upon them. 
There are those in my place who may misguide 
and misinstruct them — who have not my tact,” 
she added, with that naive conceit in her own 
powers which was her characteristic bit of pride. 

“ I have been too long here. I am going away 
to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow? Oh, Lucy!” 

“ On Sunday next I shall preach God’s word 
again,” she said, with glistening eyes. “ I shall 
be happier in doing my duty than in neglecting it 
thus sinfully. I shall have forgotten you and him.” 

“ Why should you wish to forget us?” asked 
Sarah, wonderingly. 

“Because you trouble my mind in spite of 
me,” she answered, releasing herself from Sarah 
Eastbell’s half embrace ; “because my mission 
is apart from you both— and yet you follow me 
like this,” she added, angrily ; “you call me back 
to my weak world, my own bad self, and I shall 
be very glad to escape.” 

“I had hoped you would have been happy 
here, Lucy.” J 

“ A fine house brings no happiness to me.” 

“And as for going away to-morrow,” con- 


tinued Sarah, “ why, your going away means 
his.” 

“Ah! that’s what you are thinking about,” 
said Lucy, bitterly. “Well, it’s natural. You 
love him very much?” 

“With all my heart,” answered Sarah. “Heav- 
en knows how long I have loved him, Lucy.” 

“Don’t call Heaven to witness your girlish 
nonsense, child. I wish that you understood his 
nature better,” said Lucy, “ for you are making 
an idol out of common clay.” 

“Reuben is not common clay,” cried Sarah, 
warmly. 

“You are too young for him. You haven’t 
considered — But there, there ! what is the use 
of this? I am going away to-morrow, and he 
will leave Sedge Hill too.” 

“And what is to become of me?” asked Sa- 
rah Eastbell, plaintively : ‘ ‘ have you thought of 
that ?” 

“ No,” was the reply. 

“Then you don’t care for me much,” said 
Sarah, reproachfully. 

Any other woman save the strange eccentrici- 
ty by her side would have uttered some common- 
place expressions of regard under this accusa- 
tion. But Lucy Jennings preferred hurling hard 
truths, however sharp those missiles were, at her 
acquaintances. 

“I thought once that I might like you in 
time,” said Lucy Jennings, very slowly and clear- 
ly, “ when you were a poor outcast of a girl, 
and I led you to my home in Hope Street. I 
thought you would trust in me, and look up to 
me ; but you did not, and with your advance to 
affluence my interest died away. I suppose that 
was the reason,” she added, more doubtfully; 
“I can’t tell exactly, but — ” 

“ But you didn’t care for me?” added Sarah. 

“ Yes — that’s it.” 

“ I used to think no one ever cared for me but 
my poor grandmother, and so I grew up sullen 
and strange,” said Sarah, “ until Reuben taught 
me what was right.” 

“ We need not begin about that man again,” 
said Lucy, shortly. 

“ But he is going away — he will surely go 
away to-morrow, if you do.” 

“Yes, he will see the necessity of that,” was 
the reply. “It is right.” 

“And you will not think of me?” said Sarah, 
reproachfully, once more. 

“ What is there to think of?” cried Lucy, still 
more energetically. “I leave you very happy, 
with the wish of your life gratified in Reuben 
Culwick’s affection, with wealth around you, and 
with the promise of brighter days than even these 
to come — with every thing to make the heart 
light and its owner grateful— and yet you ask me 
what is to become of you, as though you were 
an object of pity and contempt, like me.” 

Sarah w r as astonished at this outburst of re- 
proof. She was weak still, and she shrank farther 
away from Lucy Jennings in her new amazement. 

“ Pity ! contempt !” ejaculated Sarah Eastbell, 
in a low aside. 

“I have been pitied— there are many who de- 
spise me— mine has been a thankless life,” Lucy 
said, with sudden coldness, “ and it contrasts 
strangely with your own, at which you murmur. 
Don’t speak of it again.” 

“I do not murmur at my life,” said Sarah, in 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


self-extenuation ; “and you are mistaken, Lucy, 
in thinking me ungrateful. I thank my God for 
being rich — ” 

“For being rich !” exclaimed Lucy. 

“ Rich enough to make him rich, and set him 
in his rightful place.” 

“ Him again !” muttered Lucy. 

“But you leave me utterly alone when you 
and Reuben go away — alone in this great man- 
sion, which I hold in trust for its master, and 
can not desert — where my poor grandmother 
died — where danger came to me, and will come 
again, she added, with a shudder, “for it is an 
unlucky house !” 

“You are nervous still,” said Lucy; “you 
will overcome this feeling in a day or two.” 

“Never!” 

“ Then you are foolish,” said her companion. 

They were her last hard words, and the wom- 
an, without pity for Sarah Eastbell’s life— possi- 
! bly with some envy of it — went from the room, 
leaving Sarah to reflect upon all that had been 
said. Yes, very foolish in her new life, and with 
her new love ; after all, Lucy Jennings was right, 
perhaps ; for Reuben, returning with Tots to the 
drawing-room, found his second cousin in tears. 

“ Why, Sarah, what is this ?” he cried, leaning 
over her, and endeavoring to console her by fair 
words and fond caresses. Tots was faintly jeal- 
ous of these, and walked pensively out of the 
room. Hers was an odd little world too, which 
she could not understand — she had gone back 
strangely of late days — but there was much love 
in her new sphere, only she did not seem to have 
it all to herself. 

“I thought we were getting over this,” said 
Reuben, cheerfully, as he sat by Sarah’s side. 

“Ye — es,” sobbed Sarah; “but Lucy Jen- 
nings has been talking of your going away to- 
morrow.” 

“That’s exceedingly kind of her, to make all 
my little arrangements in this way,” said Reu- 
ben, dryly. 

“She has not done that,” Sarah hastened to 
explain; “only she has determined to return to 
London herself, and you — you must not stop here 
without her, you know.” 

“ Without the duenna to play propriety — no, 
it’s hardly the etiquette by which our sober lives 
should be governed,” answered Reuben. “ Yes, 
I must go.” 

“Ah ! that’s what I say,” replied Sarah. 

“But I shall come back again, in a day or 
two, with a marriage-license, Sarah — there!” he 
added. 

“Oh no, no! that can’t be yet,” cried Sarah, 
trembling and reddening, and then turning pale. 
“ How is it possible ?” 

“Is it impossible, Sarah?” he asked, tender- 
ly and earnestly; “under the strange circum- 
stances, is it not what the old lady would have 
wished herself? Shall we respect her memory 
the less because we end a false position between 
us?” 

“It can’t be,” whispered Sarah to herself 
again. 

“I have been thinking of this, and vet not 
liking to speak of it, Sarah,” continued Reuben ; 

“ conventionality has shaken me by the throat, 
and told me to be respectable and miserable for 
twelve months; and I have shaken up convention- 
ality in return, and told it to its prim face that 


it was an awful humbug. Miss Jennings is right 
— I can’t stop here after she is gone ; but I can’t 
go away to my garret, and leave you here a 
temptation to all the villains who know how rich 
you are, and what hinges on your life. Second- 
cousin Sarah, we must marry in self-defense!” 

She could not answer yet. She was bewilder- 
ed ; there was a strange mixture of grief and joy 
at her full heart. She would have been glad to 
cry again, only Lucy Jennings had told her that 
she was childish. 

“ See what a false position you keep your fu- 
ture lord and master in for twelve long months,” 
he said, lightly — “a poor and unsuccessful au- 
thor, writing out his heart’s blood in a top gar- 
ret of Drury Lane — another Chatterton, only the 
world will never discern his genius ! — a starve- 
ling too proud to take money from you, until he 
takes your hand as well. You know how fond 
of money he is — how unhappy he has been al- 
ways in his poverty!” 

Sarah did not perceive the keenness of the 
jest; she remembered Lucy Jennings’s words, 
and felt the force of the argument — that was all. 
He had treated his life without her very lightlv ; 
but it was a terrible picture, for all that, which 
he drew, and she thought how true it was. 

He did not dwell on this, however; he was 
eloquent in depicting life with her at Sedge Hill 
in his father’s house; he was full of clear rea- 
soning as to the practicability and advisability 
of the step ; he spoke of his love for her, and his 
anxiety for her. 

“Let me ask Lucy,” she implored at last; 
“ don’t press me now to give an answer.” 

“ It can not matter much what Lucy says,” he 
replied ; “ but ask her, Sarah — and think of this, 
and of me, till to-morrow.” 

He was sure of her consent, and he let her 
leave him without pressing too persistently for 
her reply. It was the natural end of the posi- 
tion ; it was just and fair, he thought ; it saved 
them both from much unhappiness. 

Sarah went away in search of Lucy Jennings, 
whom she found in the room which had been 
allotted to her — in Miss Holland’s room that 
used to be. 

And here began a new trouble for Second- 
cousin Sarah at once. It came to her, sharp and 
sudden, like a blow. She was right in her judg- 
ment of Sedge Hill. It was not a lucky house ! 


CHAPTER II. 

NO PEACE. 

Lucy Jennings was writing busily in her room 
when Sarah came in softly with the news. The 
woman-preacher had gone to her own apartment, 
away from the society of two young folks who 
thought of little save each other, and whose 
courtship did not interest her. 

She was surrounded by papers, and she had 
set her desk close to the window for the advan- 
tage of the light, Lucy’s eyes not being so strong 
as they used to be. She was wearing spectacles 
when Sarah entered — thick, ugly, black-rimmed 
spectacles — which she whipped off and dropped 
into a side pocket with a strange alacrity, as the 
door opened, considering how far above the little 
vanities of this earth she had set her great ambi- 


128 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


tion. She had hoped for a quiet hour in this 
room, but it was not to be. She had letters to 
write to one or two of the principal members of 
her flock, announcing her return ; she had half 
a hundred instructions to set forth ; she had a 
grave matter to consider affecting the people 
whom she was about to leave at Sedge Hill even ; 
and now here was this tiresome, one-ideaed Sa- 
rah Eastbell again. She was never glad to see 
her ; it was very true that she did not like Reu- 


“ Reuben, to be sure.” 

“ Always Reuben ! I had forgotten there was 
no other man upon the earth but Reuben Cul- 
wick,”she said, bitterly. 

Sarah took a seat close to the side of Lucy 
Jennings, with a want of ceremony which star- 
tled the elder lady. 

“ He says I may ask your opinion if I will — 
and you will think how right he is.” 

“ it will be about the first time in my life that 



ben’s cousin — nay, that she tried very hard at 
times not to like her. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Lucy ! what do you think he has been 
saying?” Sarah cried, in her excitement, as she 
came into the room and steered her way among 
Miss Holland’s unclaimed boxes to the win- 
dow. 

“ Who has been saying?” asked Lucy, without 
looking in her direction. 


I have thought him in the right, ’’she muttered ; 
then she added, in her sharpest and jerkiest man- 
ner, “Well, what is it?” 

“ I have been telling him of your going awav 
to-morrow — of the necessity of his going too, as 
you suggested, and he says— oh, Lucy ! what do 
you think he has got into’his dear old head ?” she 
cried, clapping her hands together. 

I can t guess what is the object of guessing 





when it is easy for you to explain ? 
gracious rejoinder. 

Sarah Eastbell did not notice the chilliness of 
Miss Jennings s remarks. She dashed into her 
subject forthwith ; she spoke of Reuben’s wish 
for an early marriage as a wise and natural so- 
lution to the difficulties in their way ; she re- 
peated all Reuben’s arguments as to the reason 
for pursuing this course; she confessed artlessly 
enough her own affection, her own wishes and 
embarrassments ; and Lucy Jennings heard her 
out patiently. 

In all his life he has been in a hurry,” Lucv 
said, when Sarah had completed her recital, “so 
what is the use of my advice? It would be an 
ill-timed formality, of no value to either of you.” 

“I have come for your advice, Lucy — I don’t 
know what to do.” 

“If he had been less impetuous,” said Lucv, 
betraying a sudden excitement herself, “ it would 
have been as well — it would have given me time 
to think. Sarah, you must not marry Reuben 
Culwick yet.” 

“You — you think it is not right — it is not 
respectful to the memory of her I have lost ?” 
asked Sarah. 

‘ ‘ Respectful ! ” cried Lucy, contemptuously, “ I 
have not given a thought to it ! But”— and here 
followed a long pause, with Lucy glaring strange- 
ly at her visitor— “but,” she continued at last, 
“something has happened in this room that I 
have been keeping to myself, and which may al- 
ter both your lives.” 

“Something has happened?” repeated Sarah, 
slowly. 

“Yes.” 

“ I have been waiting for it — it was not possi- 
ble for any happiness to come to me,” said Sa- 
rah, mournfully. “Tell me what you fear.” 

“ I don’t know — I can’t say,” answered Lucy ; 
“I have not had time to think. I have been 
trying to set it apart from my thoughts until I 
could have spoken to Reuben about it quietly 
to-morrow ; but you come in upon me, and dis- 
turb me with fresh revelations, and there is nev- 
er peace !” 

She held her arms up as if protesting to heav- 
en against her trials, and Sarah watched her with 
a nervous interest. 

“What has happened which may alter Reu- 
ben’s life and mine ?” she asked again ; “ and 
Avhy in this room, where — ” 

“Where a woman named Mary Holland lived 
for some years, ’’said Lucy, quickly — “a woman 
whom you learned to distrust at last?” 

“ We did, and yet — ” 

Lucy Jennings interrupted her again. 

“You did not distrust her in vain, perhaps,” 
she added. “I will tell you, Sarah Eastbell, 
what I thought of telling Reuben Culwick ; but 
it may be your right to hear this first of all, as 
it may affect you most of all — who knows ?” 

“Go on,” said Sarah, impatiently; “let me 
hear the worst.” 

“It is not in my power,” was the answer; 
“you must learn it for yourself. Read what is 
written on that paper.” 

Lucy Jennings had opened her desk and pro- 
duced a long blue envelope, on which were writ- 
ten words in a large, clear hand, to which she 
pointed with her finger — the finger of fate to the 
timid girl who followed every movement, and 


129 

leaned forward to the paper cautiously and ea- 
gerly. 

“ Great Heaven !” she ejaculated. 

Yes, Lucy Jennings was right — that which 
might affect the whole after-life of Reuben Cul- 
wick and herself was in the hands of the woman- 
preacher. 

On the envelope were written these words : 

“ Herein is contained the last Will and Testa- 
ment of Simon Culwick , of Sedge Hill, Worces- 
ter .” 

There was a date appended — the date of the 
day on which Simon Culwick had called at Hope 
Street, Camberwell, for the first and last time in 
his life. It was a will made before he had come 
that day in search of his son, and it overruled all 
other testaments to which in his life of change he 
had set his trembling hand. 


CHAPTER III. 

FACING THE TRUTH. 

Sarah Eastbell turned the sealed packet 
round in a helpless fashion, regarding Lucy pit- 
eously meanwhile. Here was a new calamity to 
change the current of her life ; nothing written 
therein could bring peace to her, she thought al- 
ready. It was a will that struck her from this 
home and set her in her rightful place— a poor 
dependent, or a struggling woman ; it set aside 
the other will, or Simon Culwick would not have 
signed it at the eleventh hour. That it left her 
poor, she did not mind; but that it made Reu- 
ben rich— as she believed it did — seemed to take 
him from her sphere forever. Why it should do 
this, why she felt already that she had lost him, 
was singular enough ; but then Second -cousin 
Sarah was very proud, and very strange at times. 

“ Where did you find this ?” she asked at last. 

“In that box, ’’Lucy replied, pointing to an 
old-fashioned hair trunk studded with brass nails 
—one of the boxes which Mary Holland had nev- 
er claimed. 

“Was it not locked ?” 

“The lock had not caught the hasp, I found, 
and last night I uncorded the box, thinking to 
refasten it, and render it more secure.” 

“ Yes — and then ?” 

“And then I opened the box — I looked in for a 
moment, and this was the first thing that caught 
my attention,” said Lucy Jennings. “Is there 
any thing to blame me for?” she added, sharply. 
“In seeing to the safety of Miss Holland’s prop- 
erty, have I not unmasked a spy ?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Sarah. 

“ What right had that woman with Reuben’s 
father’s will ?” asked Lucy. “ Has she not com- 
mitted a crime against the law ? Is not this an 
act of revenge against him ?” 

“I don’t see all this yet,” responded Sarah 
Eastbell, still thoughtfully. 

“This will is sealed; it was given in trust to 
Mary Holland before Simon left for London. It 
leaves his property to Reuben, and she would 
have kept him from it. I see it all. I despise 
that woman, although I have never met her in 
my life.” 

“Mary Holland is not here to answer for her- 
self, ’’said Sarah; “and Mary would have pre- 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 

was the un- 


130 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


ferred Reuben’s being rich to my poor grand- 
mother’s coming to this house.” 

“ She brought your grandmother here herself ; 
there was a plot in it. Read the will.” 

“ What right have I to read it?” asked Sarah. 

“You are in possession. Reuben is too weak 
to bear the shock. There may be something in 
it which he is not to know, first of all,” she add- 
ed, with a sudden doubt — “which is to be bro- 
ken to him by degrees.” 

“Reuben is as brave as a lion.” 

“Oh, you don’t know him,” said Miss Jen- 
nings, pityingly. 

“ I don’t think so meanly of him as you do,” 
cried Sarah, with sudden spirit ; “1 don’t be- 
lieve he has fretted for an instant about his fa- 
ther’s money, though he told me so once. He 
has denied it since ; he is above all mercenary 
thoughts.” 

“You will be his wife; you have a right to 
set him upon a pedestal and call him hero,” was 
the reply. “ I do not blame you for it. It is a 
woman's duty when she gives up her heart. You 
love him — that’s enough.” 

“ Love him — yes.” 

“If you loA 7 e him, read that will first, and 
prepare a weak man for all that it contains. It 
is probably riches, but it may be a complete disin- 
heritance, and which will be the greater shock to 
such a mind as Reuben Culwick's I can not say,” 
Lucy added, bitterly. 

“Come and see how he will take this news,” 
cried Sarah, defiantly now. 

“I have no interest in it ; it concerns me not,” 
said Lucy, very sharply; “I should not have 
mentioned it till I was prepared to leave the 
house, had you not come in with your foolish 
story of a hasty wedding. Go to him, Sarah. 
I am busy with a holier task than yours.” 

She turned her back upon her companion, and 
bent herself closely over her desk ; and when 
Sarah spoke to her again she maintained a rigid 
silence. 

It was as well, perhaps, to go alone to Reu- 
ben. Sarah had greater faith in him than Lucy 
Jennings had. She had also a greater power to 
console him if this were a new trouble; and if 
it made him very rich, she had to lay her love 
down at his feet, and say she was unworthy of 
him. What he would answer in return she did 
not know ; and yet at times she thought she 
did, knowing Reuben Culwick best of all of 
them, and being closer to his heart than they 
could ever be. 

She went down stairs to the dining-room, 
where Reuben was not now. She proceeded to 
the great picture-gallery, where she found him, 
hand in hand with the child he loved so much, 
telling into her rapt ears the stories which the 
canvas breathed in glowing colors to them. He 
left Tots the moment Sarah came into the room, 
and advanced eagerly toward her. She was glad 
of that, for she was jealous of his love for Tots, 
although she loved Tots because Reuben liked 
her, rather than because the child had delivered 
her from bondage. 

“Well, Avhat does the great preacher say?” 
Reuben asked, lightly ; “ does not Lucy think — ” 

Then he stopped, quick enough to read the 
new expression on Sarah Eastbelfs face. 

“What has happened?” he asked, in a dif- 
ferent tone ; “ Avhat paper is that ?” 


“It was found in Mary Holland’s box,” Sarah 
said, timidly, “and it belongs to you.” 

Reuben took the packet from Sarah’s hand, 
and read the superscription, his eyes dilating 
with surprise. He made no attempt to break 
the seal of black Avax, but Avalked Avith her sIoav- 
ly toward the bay-Avindow at the end of the 
room, as though his sight were weak, and more 
light Avere needed to assist it. 

She seemed to hesitate in her progress with 
him, and he put his arm round her Avaist, as a 
privileged lover under these circumstances had a 
right to do. 

“For better or worse, for richer or poorer, 
my first-cousin-once-removed Sarah,” said he, 
lightly, but meaningly; “now tell me where this 
sprang from.” 

Sarah told him, Avhile he listened, Avith the pa- 
per in his hand, and looked out at the garden 
and the rising ground beyond it. Tots stole 
away during the narration. 

“Mary Holland may have receded — possibly 
did receive — private instructions from my poor 
father Avith this will, ’’said Reuben, Avhen Sarah 
had completed her narrative; “she is not to 
blame, I trust, even if it comes at us in this 
fashion. It was to be kept back, at Simon Cul- 
Avick’s request, a certain time, possibly, he being 
a secretive man.” 

“ Has that time arrived?” 

“Miss Holland is not here to tell us,” answer- 
ed Reuben, “ and you and I stand in a false posi- 
tion, Avith this will lying like a bar upon the free- 
dom of our thoughts. I take all the responsibil- 
ity ; it is my right, as Simon Culwick’s son.” 

“You are not afraid of the contents?” she 
asked, remembering suddenly Lucy Jennings's 
criticism of Reuben’s temperament. 

“There is nothing Avithin the will to frighten 
me,” he replied, firmly, “or to make me glad, or 
cast me down. See how steady the hand is that 
turns over the page of this new book of fate.” 

His fingers broke the seal and took from the 
envelope the document contained therein. As he 
opened it very coolly, he looked steadily at Sarah. 

“My second cousin, whom this affects more 
than myself, will imitate my philosophy, I hope, 
keeping strong Avith me.” 

“ Yes,” answered Sarah. 

“She Avas not brought up to expect riches, 
and riches can pass away Avithout repining at 
their loss, for she is young and true.” 

“If they pass from me to you — ” 

“ As they will not, Sarah,” he said — “ as they 
never Avill.” 

He looked at the paper for the first time. It 
Avas a brief will, which a few lines made clear. 
It Avas written by Simon Cuhvick himself, and 
j witnessed by tAvo servants Avho had left the house 
two years since, and it left, as Reuben had im- 
agined from the first, the whole of his property, 
free and indivisible, to his old friend's child, his 
faithful housekeeper, Mary Holland. 

He refolded the will, and regarded attentively 
his second cousin, Avho remained dumb with 
amazement. 

“And Marv Holland I have turned out of her 
OAvn house, so that she is not here to recede our 
congratulations,” said Reuben Culwick, coolly. 

/ 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


CHAPTER IV. 

CONSOLATION. 

Reuben had acted like a philosopher in this 
matter, and he took the final disposal of the Cul- 
wick property in a way that showed his heart 
was not deeply affected by its loss. Here was 
Second-cousin Sarah to keep him strong, and to 
keep strong by his example. It was her loss 
rather than his own ; and to show that he val- 
ued her affection above the riches that she might 
have brought him was an opportunity not light- 
ly to be missed. For Sarah Eastbell was not a 
philosopher after all ; she was unselfish, but she 
gave way for the sake of him whom she had no 
power now to make rich. She went from the 
window with her hands before her face, and sat 
down trembling in the arm-chair wherein her 
grandmother had died protesting her faith in her. 

She was crying, Reuben saw, when he had 
drawn the thin hands from her face, and was 
looking tenderly into her tear-dimmed eyes. 

“ Courage, Sarah !” he said ; “you have never 
cared for the splendor of this place ; you wanted 
to give it all away, you know.” 

“ And now I can not help you !” 

“ Oh yes, you can !” 

“I am a burden on your life, Reuben,” she 
murmured, “for you are* very poor, like me. I 
must forget what you have said, and you — you 
must never think of me again.” 

“ And what else ?” he said. 

He perched himself on the broad arm of the 
chair, and looked down laughingly at her, rest- 
ing his hand lightly on her shoulder. 

“I can not make you rich now,” she faltered 
forth. 

“I did not ask Sarah Eastbell to be my wife 
because she was an heiress,” he replied, “ but be- 
cause she was the most unselfish, the most faith- 
ful little woman whom I had ever met. She made 
my heart light when I was losing faith in hu- 
mankind, and I am not going to part with her 
again. ” 

“I do not see any hope for you and me now, 
Reuben,” said Sarah, sadly. “We must find 
Miss Holland.” 

“Yes, we must find Miss Holland,” he echo- 
ed. ‘ ‘ What will she say to this accession of for- 
tune?” 

“ Is she not aware of it ?” 

“The will was sealed. It was placed in her 
hands, to be opened at some future period and 
some stated date, I think, and most probably 
without a knowledge of its contents.” 

“ And then ?” said Sarah, wonderingly. 

“And then, when the usurpers were at rest, 
and had grown purse-proud and ungrateful, this 
mine was to be sprung beneath their feet. It is 
after my poor father’s fashion, and I bear him no 
ill will for thinking of Miss Holland. She was a 
friend to him ; I was his enemy to the last.” 

“Not his enemy, Reuben.” 

“I might have acted in so different a way,” 
he said, regretfully, “and he might have parted 
with me in less enmity. A few more kind words 
between us might have changed his life as well as 
mine.” 

“You would have been in this house as its 
master.” 

“I was not thinking of that,” said Reuben; 

“ for by this will I am not left a poorer man. 


131 

Can not I prove that I love my second cousin 
tor herself, if she ever doubted it before this ?” 

“ No, Reuben, I don’t doubt. I have been 
happy enough to win your love ; but I should be 
very selfish to seek to keep it.” 

“Do you regret the coming change in vour 
position ?” J 

“Yes.” 

“For yourself?” 

“ No, no— for you. Oh, Reuben ! ” she cried, 
suddenly and passionately, “ I would not marrv 
you for all the world. ” 

She shrank at last from the touch of his hand 
upmi her shoulder, and bent her head away from 

W hat does it matter, Sarah, if we are going 
to be poor instead of rich — we two together ?” 

4 You have been always unhappy in your pov- 
erty,” she murmured; “only an hour or two ago 
you told me this.” 

It was hard to have a few jesting words hurl- 
ed back at him in sober earnest, but he was not 
t0 be baffled by his second cousin in this way. 
He had mastered the position, and he understood 
all that was in her mind, he thought. 

“I have been unhappy in my poverty, because 
I have been alone in it, without a hope, Sarah,” 
he said, more earnestly. “I should go back to 
it trebly miserable if you feared to share it with 
me.” 

“I fear it for your sake.” 

“God forbid that I should be coward enough 
to drag you down to it from this,” said Reuben 

or expose you to all the miseries of my pettv 
indigence. But you are young, and I am not 
old, and time is before us both. Are you going 
to say good-by because Simon Culwick leaves 
his money to his housekeeper ?” 

“ We must cancel this engagement,” said Sa- 
rah, less resolutely ; “ I — I — am in your way.” 

“ We will cancel no promises that we made a 
good old woman,” answered Reuben. “I will 
not release you from your word. I see debts 
growing less— work more remunerative— a little 
suburban cottage somewhere for two simple folk 
of scanty means but great big hearts, and it is 
only waiting for a while. Let the money pass 
from every thought of ours ; it has brought you 
trouble ; it has led others to crime, and the bless- 
ing of our life lies a long way beyond it. Why, 
Sarah, I am proud of my poverty at last ! ” 

Reuben had grown quite eloquent. Lucy Jen- 
nings would have told him to keep his fine talk 
for the books that he could not sell, but the little 
trustful heart at his side knew only that he talk- 
ed “like a book,” though he talked in earnest. 
After this she was glad to be persuaded that 
Reuben would be happy with her rather than 
without her — that she* could only add to his 
troubles by setting him free, or to his happiness 
by believing in his love ; and she was too young 
to grieve long over her incapacity to make him 
master of his father’s house. 

She did not study the position of affairs after 
his last speech ; she was happier poor than rich 
perhaps; she agreed to all his reasoning; she 
looked forward with him to the future, as he 
sketched it for her with those cheering words 
of his which made her heart glow. Here were 
the true courting days, then, the happy days which 
no after-time could take away. If she looked 
back at them presently, as at things gone bv for- 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


132 

ever — if they faded by rough contact with the 
world — still they were no less bright for being 
looked at through a rain of tears, and there were 
no regrets for unwise words or deeds to mar the 
recollection of that day. 

The happiness born of it, and of faith in each 
other, might not last ; but then the bliss that en- 
dures lies beyond the arid sands of our mother 
earth. 


CHAPTER V. 

tots’ S NURSE. 

The winter set in sharply that year, like the 
sudden frost to the hopes of Reuben Culwick and 
his second cousin. It was a severe winter, that 
nipped things to the heart before the old year 
was seven days dead. A few weeks had gone 
by since the date of our last chapter, and all with 
whom we are interested, or in whom we have en- 
deavored to raise an interest, had settled down 
to the position born of the discovery of Miss Hol- 
land’s good fortune. 

Miss Holland had not been found, despite much 
pertinacious searching; the boxes remained un- 
claimed at Sedge Hill, and Sedge Hill was held 
in trust for her. Those interested in advertise- 
ments wondered who Miss Holland was, and why 
her friends were begging her to return, and hear 
of something to her advantage ; and private in- 
quiry offices, taking up the matter on the strength 
of future emolument, set all their complex ma- 
chinery in motion, and ground not out one spot 
of information. 

Reuben accepted the position very cheerfully, 
although Lucy Jennings thought that he was too 
cheerful to be natural. He was anxious to see 
the provisions of his hither’s will carried out in 
their entirety, and he showed no sense of disap- 
pointment at the low estate to which they infal- 
libly reduced him. He had confidence in him- 
self, and he was anxious to do justice to Mary 
Holland, despite the unjust character of a will 
which struck him out of affluence. 

His father’s last wishes were to be respected, 
though his father had never loved him, or under- 
stood him, or regarded one wish of his son’s. 
He was anxious to abide by the strict letter of 
the law, and know no disappointment afterward. 
His sphere of life would remain forever a low 
one, but there would be more content in it than 
all the splendor of Sedge Hill, without his cousin, 
could have given him. These were the happiest 
days now, considering all things ; for he was a 
strong man, with his heart at rest. 

He was rising in the world, too. The work 
grew under his hand, debts became less, more 
money fell to his share from the great lottery- 
bag of letters, and if there were no big prizes, 
still he drew no blanks. Among the busy, un- 
known crowd of clever “newspaper men” he 
was already known, and three weeks ago the pro- 
moters of the Trumpet had burst out with big of- 
fices and more machinery, and higher terms for 
Reuben, who had been with them in struggling 
days, and was now called upon to share in their 
prosperity a little. 

Reuben was content, then ; he had found his 
right level, and his hopes of being famous he had 
given up for good. He had not failed with his 
pen because the world had not cared for his nov- 


el ; he had found that his main strength lay in 
another direction, where fair profits would fol- 
low, and where the strongest and best work goes 
on steadily day by day, without a flourish on each 
occasion over the details. 

He was happy in his courtship, too, for he found 
many opportunities to see his second-cousin Sa- 
rah, "and she was glad — ah ! very glad — to see 
him. Sarah was in London, in apartments in 
York Road, Lambeth, with the woman who had 
striven hard not to have her for a companion or 
friend, and yet whom she had conquered by that 
sweet persistency which was an attribute of her 
character. Sarah Eastbell was very much alone 
in the world now, and when the signal of distress 
had been raised, Lucy Jennings, with all her 
hardness, was at her best, and ready to be of as- 
sistance. When the woman-preacher had done 
her work, she would begin her scoldings and re- 
pinings — never before — and then she scolded and 
repined with a vengeance. She did not like Sa- 
rah Eastbell, she had honestly confessed once, 
and if Sarah had asked her for an opinion, she 
would have given it almost in the same words, 
although she was willing to take care of her. 
She was as kind as in Hope Street days, perhaps, 
although there were strange, sullen fits that were 
incomprehensible to every one. She and Reu- 
ben did not exchange sharp words as heretofore ; 
but Lucy was cold and distant, and Reuben had 
grown strangely deferential. He put himself out 
of the way to be complaisant to Lucy Jennings, 
but Lucy was not softened by the effort. 

“It’s because you are here that he plays the 
hypocrite,” said Lucy one da} r to Sarah. 

“It is because he has learned to understand 
your good heart,” Sarah replied. 

“He always hated me,” affirmed Lucy, “al- 
though he disguised it for a time — while his moth- 
er lived, and I took care of her, as I take care 
of you. He thinks when he smiles a little, and 
drops his hateful jesting at religion or at me, that 
he is showing his gratitude for all I have done.” 

“ Now, Lucy—” 

“I don’t want to argue about it — I am not 
likely to be deceived,” said Lucy; and she hur- 
ried away to evade a discussion on the subject 
which always shook her variable temper the most. 

Reuben came courting in the evening once or 
twice a week at first, when the newspapers would 
allow him; and there were odd half- holidays 
when Reuben and Sarah would stroll in St. 
James’s Park, and talk of the happiness ahead. 
They both spoke of the patience to wait for each 
other, of a calm present and a happy future ; 
and they laughed together — not before Lucy — at 
Lucy’s past forebodings of the misery in store 
for them. They laughed at the riches of Sedge 
Hill too, these happy philosophers whom love had 
made strong ; and the epochs of past privation, of 
past misunderstanding, became the fairest rem- 
iniscences in the clearer light above their lives. 
They loved each other all the more, these two, 
talking of the railway station in the rain where 
Sarah Eastbell was first of service to her cousin ; 
of the almshouses of St. Oswald, where he thought 
her a cross-tempered and untruthful girl ; of the 
Saxe -Gotha Gardens, and Potter’s Court, and 
Hope Street, all shining in the sun now, with 
their hard angles softened down and tipped with 
gold. 

The special reporting was the one drawback 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


to perfect peace. Reuben was clever at this, and 
was worth more money at it than his employers 
cared to inform him, though they did not' be- 
grudge him a few extra guineas. When there 
were stirring times in the provinces, Reuben was 
dispatched to report upon them— and he had flit- 
ted once to Paris, in the stormy days when “a 
little revolution” was on the cards, and Sarah 
was dull and miserable till he came back safe 

anil sound again. When he was very busy 

and he got very busy by degrees— when he was 
earning money with a fair amount of rapidity 
Saiah became less happy, because she saw less 
of him— because a week would pass, and nothing 
but hasty lines on odd sheets of paper told her 
of his existence. Lucy Jennings was grave at 
these periods too, and regarded Sarah with a 
gi im attention that she did not at first explain, 
although a time came for explanation before the 
spring buds were green. 

Tots was at Reuben’s house in Drury Lane 
too. His love for this little waif was^ still as 
much part ot his life as his love for his second 
cousin. Tots belonged to old days ; she had 
been his one comfort when he felt wholly deso- 
late : she had been lost, and his heart had been 
terribly wrung in losing her ; she was back, and 
as fond of him as ever, although there had come 
never again a memory of Hope Lodge. His land- 
lord s wife took care of her, as Lucy Jennings had 
done, and it was pleasant to have Tots with him 
at breakfast-time — his only leisure hour very oft- 
en — or Tots sitting quietly with her doll in a 
corner of his room while he worked on with his 
“copy.” 

When the extraordinary rush of business set 
in at which we have hinted, there came a strange 
nurse for Tots — a faithful attendant, who took 
Tots for long walks, and was very careful of her, 
and drank no whisky till he had brought her 
back in safety to Reuben’s apartments. It need 
hardly be said that this was the weak and maim- 
ed John Jennings, whom his sister had not for- 
given, although Reuben Culwick had. 

Lucy Jennings, as well as Reuben, found a lit- 
tle money for John, and John at times, and in 
fire-work seasons, worked as journeyman to py- 
rotechnic artists greater than he — or who had 
certainly not blown themselves up so often — and 
did justice to his employers until whisky came 
in his way after a week’s savings, and he fuddled 
himself out of his situation by slow and sure de- 
grees. 

Still John was a capital nurse, and he had 
been always fond of Tots. He taught her to 
call him Uncle John again, and though the child 
was older and sharper than when Reuben found 
her first in Camberwell, there was quickly a re- 
turn to the old affection under the old kindness 
and attention. Life wfith Captain Peterson and 
his brothers had not hurt her — it was part of a 
bad dream in the beginning of the new year, 
though the dream-figures had scarcely vanished, 
and one presently crossed her path, and startled 
her. 

This was the man whom she had seen fre- 
quently at her father’s house, who had lodged 
with them at the button factory, and of whom I 
she had caught a glimpse even at Sedge Hill. 
Tots and John Jennings were in the main thor- 
oughfare of Holborn, both interested in the shops, 
when he touched Tots on the arm. 


133 

Don,t you know me?” he asked, in a huskv 
voice. 

Tots gave a little scream, and clung more close- 
ly to John Jennings. 

“ Oh ! don’t let him take me away !” she cried 
at once. 

I don t want to take you away, Bessie — I 
only want to ask you how you are, after all these 
months, said Thomas Eastbell, offering a verv 
dirty hand to the child to shake. 

Come, you let her alone, will you ?” said 
John Jennings, sharply. John did not admire 
the looks of the man who had forced himself 
upon the notice of Reuben’s adopted child : John 
held Pots in trust, and was watchful of his charge. 
I he man before him was a forlorn specimen of 
humanity, ragged and dirty, with an old great- 
coat hanging loosely on an attenuated frame, and 
a red worsted comforter twisted round a neck 
which seemed less bull-like than usual, despite 
its wrappings. John did not know Thomas 
Eastbell at first sight, but he was a judge of dis- 
reputability — he had seen so much of it in Hope 
fetieet he had become so disreputable himself. 

-^kave much right to the child as vou 
have,” said Tom, in a surly tone, “or as your 
master has, for the matter of that. The child’s 
stole, and you know it. ” 

“ I don’t know it.” 

And its father will come to claim it precious 
quick, too— see if he don’t— and you can tell Mr. 
Culwick, too, direckly you get home. Say Tom 
Eastbell told him so — or Vizzobini. You ought 
to know Vizzobini of the Saxe-Gotha.” 

Joh n J ennings was surprised at last. He held 
the child more tightly by the hand, and said, 

“ You are Thomas Eastbell, then ?” 

“ Yes, and I don’t care who knows it. You 
can give me in charge if you like— say, for coin- 
ing last year. I shall do it mvself in an hour or 
two, if you don’t. I hate the workus, and it’s 
awful cold outside the prison. Where’s Sally ?” 

“ Your sister, do you mean?” 

“ Yes, of course I do,” answered Tom. “ She 
ain’t at Sedge Hill.” 

“ Never mind where she is.” 

“Oh! I don’t mind. She won’t help me— I’m 
her only brother, and starving in the streets. 
But you can take my compliments to her, Mr. 
Jennings, and I’m to be heard of at the ‘Matr- 
pie. 

“That’s over the way, isn’t it?” 

“ Yes — the next street,” he added, with a jerk 
of the thumb in the direction which he desired 
to indicate. 

“ I sha’n’t tell her any thing of the kind,” said 
John Jennings, sturdily. 

“You could let her know I’m starving — and 
I’m sorry — and my wife’s run away from me. 
Blest if I’ve set eyes on the old ooman since that 
young cat” (turning sharply on Tots) “took a 
key from the door, and let the couple on ’em 
out.” 

“Think yourself lucky you are not in prison 
for that,” cried John, indignantly. 

“I want to go to prison ; it’s comfortable — 
it’s warm— and it will disgrace the family a little 
more. If nobody comes to me at the ‘ Magpie’ 
to-night, with an odd sixpence, I shall disgrace 
the family. I shall give myself up.” 

“It’s the best thing you can do. You’ll be 
out of the way.” 


134 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“I’ll put you out of the way, old man, if you 
give me any of your sauce,” snarled Thomas 
Eastbell, groping in his right-hand coat pocket 
in a manner that suggested clasp-knives. 

John Jennings was not naturally a brave man. 
He turned and tied, dragging Tots not unwilling- 
ly along with him. Thomas Eastbell stood on 
the edge of the curb and watched their unceremo- 
nious retreat, his little sharp eyes glinting from 


It was a brief pursuit : a tall thin man in a 
fur cap, sauntering along on the opposite side 
of the way, with his hands in his pockets, and a 
thick yellow stick under his arm, stopped the 
chase, though he was unaware of it till his dying 
day. Tom saw him, recognized in him an act- 
ive member of the detective force, Scotland Yard, 
and slunk away into a side court at once. Tom 
was in great difficulties, and had determined to 



under the broken rim of his hat. When they 
had turned the corner of the street he followed 
them, seized with a sudden desire to track them 
home, to ascertain the dwelling-place of Reuben 
Culwick, or his sister Sarah. John Jennings 
and Tots both looked behind, saw him in their 
wake, and went on at a more rapid pace ; and 
Thomas Eastbell, exulting in their fear of him, 
increased his rate of progression after them. 


try prison fare for a change, he said ; but his 
nerves were not wholly strung to the sacrifice, 
and the sudden sight of a policeman in private 
clothes turned him heart-sick. 

He would keep out of the way a little while 
longer, if he could. The world was against 
him, and even his old pals would have nothing 
to do with him ; but liberty was precious, after 
all. 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE “MAGPIE.’ 


Reuben Culwick was hard at Trumpet- work 
when John Jennings and Tots arrived home with 
the news of their meeting with Thomas East- 
bell. He was working against time somewhat, 
but he set his pen aside to listen to John Jen- 
nings’s recital and Tots’s scared interpellations, 
paying particular attention to Mr. Eastbell’s in- 
toimation that the child would be fetched away 
presently by her father. 

“And he said that Sarah might hear of him 
at the ‘ Magpie ?’ ” 

“ Yes,” answered John Jennings. 

“ Where’s the ‘ Magpie ?’ ” 

“Its a little public in Burker’s Street, where 
they sell very fair whisky.” 

“ Ah, yes, poor John, I suppose you know it,” 
said Reuben, shaking his head at him. “Well, 
will you go there this evening for me and face 
that man again ?” 

“If— if you wish it, I will,” answered John, 
taken aback by the request. 

Reuben had promised to see Sarah that even- 
ing. It was a leisure night, on which Reuben 
could leave work with an easy conscience ; and 
he had written that morning, announcing his in- 
tention of calling at York Road ; and now Thom- 
as Eastbell, her brother, had started up, and he 
felt that he had more than one question to ask 
him. He could not trust John Jennings at a 
whisky-shop, and in Tots’s defense, perhaps in 
Sarah’s, it might be necessary to proceed with 
caution. He wished to see Captain Peterson, 
too, and Tom Eastbell might be able, for a bribe, 
to tell him where he was. He must act for him- 
self, and with caution. He would not alarm Sa- 
rah by any mention of her brother’s name at 
present. She was easily excited, and forever in 
fear of the scamp. 

“John,” he said, suddenly, “you must take a 
letter to Sarah at once.” 

“Very well, Mr. Reuben.” 

“Don’t say any thing of your meeting with 
her brother.” 

“ Trust me for that,” said John, knowingly. 

“ She is not strong enough for any fresh 
trouble,” said Reuben, as he drew a sheet of 
note-paper toward him, and wrote very reluc- 
tantly an excuse for not being able to see her 
as he had promised. He alleged no reason — he 
would explain when he saw her, he said — and 
he re-read the letter somewhat critically after he 
had finished the writing of it. It was a brief 
epistle ; he should see her to-morrow, he hoped, 
and that would be time enough for explanation 
of his breach of promise. Sarah trusted him 
implicitly, and would know that only business of 
importance could keep him from her. She did 
not expect a long letter from him, and a heap of 
reasons, at that busy hour of the day. Let the 
letter go. 

In the evening, somewhat later, Reuben Cul- 
wick, not too fashionably attired, was at the bar 
of the “ Magpie,” endeavoring to relish the ale 
with which its proprietors had furnished him, 
and smoking a pipe by way of giving character 
to his present appearance. On a Saturday night 
the “ Magpie” was full of customers, chance and 
regular, and his presence called for no particular 
degree of attention. The “Magpie” was a re- 


135 

spectable house in its way, that is, it did not 
put itself out of the way to become a very bad 
one. Bad characters, patent to bad neighbor- 
hoods, came in and out at all hours for their 
drams, and were welcome enough so that they 
paid their money and drank their liquids with- 
out quarreling over them. But the landlord was 
lespec table, and had no back- parlors wherein 
thieves might congregate and talk treason against 
householders. When thieves required stimulant 
in front of the bar, which they often did, they 
could have it as well as honest men, and their 
money was as welcome to the “ Magpie’s” rat- 
tling till. 

It was eight o’clock, or later, when Thomas 
Eastbell’s pock-marked countenance peered round 
PP e sw i n g - doors. The “ Magpie” was 

lorn s forlorn hope. He had sent a message 
to his sister, and she might attend to it. Who 
knows ? He caught sight of Reuben Culwick, 
and his first impulse was to back into the street. 
Then he wavered ; and while he was hesitating, 
along with a crowd of orange-women and cos- 
ter-mongers, Reuben came from the public-house 
and confronted him. 

“You need not run away, Tom Eastbell,” said 
Reuben. 

“You’re not going to split on me?” 

“No.” 

“ I haven’t done you any harm,” he returned ; 

“ I haven’t done nobody any harm — never. All 
that you have heard about me has been a pack 
of lies. I’ve been as honest as I could be, and 
this is what comes of it.” 

“ Indeed !” 

“I’m hard up— I’m starving. Wish I may die, 
Mr. Culwick, but I haven’t tasted food to-day.” 

“ Where are your friends ?” 

“ I haven’t got none.” 

‘ ‘ That’s hard, ” said Reuben. “But the Peter- 
sons ?” 

“They turned me out of their house. They 
said I was a blundering fool. One of ’em kicked 
me last time I saw him.” 

“ The captain ?” 

Tom Eastbell laughed sardonically. 

“No, he can’t kick. He broke* both of his 
legs in the country, jumping from a window of 
the button factory to get out of the way of the 
police. He can only swear and cuss me notv.” 

“But—” 

“ But talking’s dry work,” Tom hinted. 

Reuben Culwick took the hint. There was 
information to be gained from this outcast, with 
whom crime had not agreed, and Thomas East- 
bell was to be rendered communicative at a small 
outlay. They re-entered the “ Magpie, ” where 
Reuben, at his request, gave him cold gin and 
Abernethy biscuits, the former of which was tilt- 
ed speedily down his throat,* and the latter vo- 
raciously devoured. He was a thorough black- 
guard, but Reuben felt a strange kind of pity for 
his low condition, villain as he was. Was he 
not going to be a relation by marriage, too ? 
Reuben thought, as he watched him tearing wolf- 
like at his biscuits. 

“Have you brought me any money from Sa- 
rah ?” Thomas Eastbell asked, suddenly and ea- 
gerly. 

“Not a penny.” 

“Now that’s too bad — ” 

Reuben did not allow him to finish the sentence. 


136 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ Your sister Sarah is very poor. Another 
will of my father’s has been found,” Reuben con- 
descended to explain, “and she has no money 
to spare for you, even if she had the inclination.” 

“Good lor! Then you — ” 

“I have brought you a little money, though I 
am poor too. Your sister has done with you for- 
ever. ” 

“ So she said, Sir. It was an unfeeling speech,” 
he added, with a faltering voice, “and I’ve never 
got over it. But poor, you say ?” 

“ Very poor.” 

“I don’t believe a word of it,” he muttered. 

“I haven’t come here to explain,” said Reu- 
ben, “ only to give you a couple of sovereigns — 
more than I can afford — for information. ” 

“Oh, that’s it,” said Tom, artfully ; “ well, sov- 
ereigns are sovereigns just now. Hand them 
over, governor.” 

“First — is this Edward Peterson the father 
of the little girl you met this morning?” 

“He says he is. He gave me money to take 
care of her altogether. But it wasn’t enough, 
so I lost her,” said Tom, coolly — “ or rather,” he 
added, interpreting Reuben’s look of disgust cor- 
rectly, “my old woman lost her. It was her 
fault. She never had a mite of feeling in her 
for any body save herself.” 

“ And I found the child when she was lost.” 

“ And then Peterson turned up, and stormed 
and raved at me, till I told him where the child 
was, and he stole it from you back again. He 
was fond of that child when he was in a good 
temper, which wasn’t often, though.” 

“ His wife. Is she dead ?” 

“Long ago, he tells me.” 

“Where is Edward Peterson now?” 

“In Worcester — Mitcheson’s Place, near the 
river. And you can put the bobbies on to him, 
if they’re not taking care of him already. He 
has treated me bad enough.” 

“How’s that?” 

“He says it’s all my fault that — Are you 
going to stand any more gin ?” 

“ Here is your money. Do what you like 
with it.” 

“Thankee. Are you going to split on Ned 
Peterson? Ha! ha! He can’t run away.” 

“ Who is with him ?” 

“ An old sweetheart, who will marry him when 
his legs get better. She has always been dead 
nuts on him, Ned tells me.” 

“Is it Mary Holland ?” 

“That’s her name; the woman who was at 
Sedge Hill. You know her well enough.” 

“And she is with Edward Peterson at Worces- 
ter?” 

“Yes.” 

Reuben Culwick waited for no further news ; 
he had learned more than he had anticipated ; ] 
he thought he saw all very clearly to the end 
now, and where his duty lay. He darted from 
the friendly shelter of the “Magpie,” and hur- 
ried into Holborn, and from Holborn through 
sundry back turnings into Drury Lane, where 
he met John Jennings, who passed a great deal 
of his time in walking up and down the street in 
which Reuben Culwick resided. 

“John, ’’said he, seizing him by thearm, “are 
you sober ?” 

“Quite sober,” answered John. 

“Not quite. You have had a glass, you dolt.” 


‘ ‘ Only one. It’s such a dreadfully cold night ! ” 

“ Don’t take any more. Think what a fool 
it makes of you, John, and what Lucy will say.” 

“Lucy!” said John, aghast. “I'm not go- 
ing to see her again to-night, am I ?” 

“You must go to your sister’s house once 
more.” 

“Oh, gracious!” 

“You must see Sarah — ” 

“Bless her, yes. If I had married her, Mr. 
Reuben, what a different man I should have 
been ! What a — ” 

“You have had more than one glass. You’re 
maudlin.” 

“Only one since tea, upon my honor.” 

“ Where did you have tea?” 

“Since tea-time, speaking more correctly. 
But I am sober, Mr. Reuben ; I really am.” 

“Find Sarah Eastbell. Tell her I have dis- 
covered that Miss Holland is in Worcester; that I 
have left London in search of her, and to end all 
suspense at once — her suspense as well as mine.” 

“Yes.” 

“ I hope to be back on Monday.” 

“Is that all?” 

“Yes. Now be off at once.” 

Reuben hurried to his lodgings, begged his 
landlady to be careful of Tots till his return, 
looked in at Tots sleeping calmly in her little 
crib, stooped over her and kissed her without 
awakening her, and then hurried away to the 
railway station in the hope of catching a night 
mail that should carry him on a portion of his 
journey toward Worcester. 


CHAPTER VII. 

IN WORCESTER AGATN. 

Reuben Culwick was in the loyal city earlv 
the next day. He had traveled by a roundabout 
route, catching a night mail that took him a cer- 
tain distance on his way, whereby he was ena- 
bled to start early for Worcester on the follow- 
ing morning, in search of Mary Holland. He 
passed over some superfluous ground, but he 
saved valuable time : on Monday he hoped to be 
back at his work in Drury Lane, as if nothing 
so serious had happened as the surrender of all 
claims, on his part and his cousin’s, to the estate 
at Sedge Hill. He should be happier when that 
was settled, he thought — when he had found 
Mary Holland, and surprised her by the news 
of her good fortune. "Whether she deserved that 
fortune or not he did not stop to consider. She 
was a mystery to him, and would probably re- 
main so to the end of the chapter. Perhaps he 
had misjudged her— possibly she had betrayed 
Sarah Eastbell — certainly she was in league with 
Edward Peterson — and under all circumstances 
of life his father had willed that Mary Holland 
should come into the property. So be it. It 
was his father’s last wish, and* it should be car- 
ried out to the letter, and in the right spirit. It 
was the one wish of his father’s that he had re- 
spected of late days, and there was a strange 
satisfaction in setting about its accomplishment. 
After all, he did not care for money, for he took 
extraordinary pains to get his father’s property 
out of his reach, as if to prove in his latter days 
how for he was above its temptations. 


137 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


The cathedral bells were ringing when he was 
searching in Mitcheson’s Place for Edward Pe- 
terson. The man who had leaped from the top 
window of the button factory, and broken both 
his legs, was not difficult to find— the inhabitants 
of Mitcheson’s Place knew all about him, who 
he was and where he was, and the county police 
had been watching for his convalescence for 
weeks past, in order to conduct him to safe 
quarters. Edward Peterson was too ill to be 


was certain that Reuben was not one of the gang 
who had swamped Worcester with pewter half 
crowns — and he went up the steep and rickety 
stairs of the place, wondering if be should meet 
Miss Holland after all, and of the nature of the 
tie between her and the coiner that had taken 
her from their side to his. There could be only 
one solution to the riddle, he thought, and he 
was close upon it. 

It was the back-room of the first floor to which 



moved at present — indeed, of late days the po- 
lice had not been vigilant, a turn for the worse 
having taken place in the sick man’s condi- 
tion, and it being tolerably certain that he was 
drifting from the laws of his country in undue 
haste. 

Reuben understood the position before he had 
reached the house — a policeman on duty in the 
street gave him the fullest particulars, when he 


he had been directed, and where he knocked 
softly for admittance. Some one crossed the 
room lightly, opened the door, and looked hard 
at him, with the color flickering faintly on her 
cheeks. It was Mary Holland, pale and thin, 
who faced him on the landing-place, drawing 
the door behind . her very carefully so that the 
whispers of their conference might not reach the 
ears of him who l?iy within the chamber. 


138 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“You have found me at last, then?” she in- 
quired. 

They did not shake hands — the shadow of the 
past mistrust was still between them, and there 
was no getting from it in the first moments of 
their peering. 

“You know that we have been searching for 
you — advertising for you ?” said Reuben. 

“Yes, but I did not care to answer yet,” she 
replied. 

“ You are attending upon Edward Peterson ?” 

“My husband — yes.” 

“Your husband!” repeated Reuben, slowly. 

He was prepared for the avowal ; he had look- 
ed forward to this explanation, and yet it came 
to him with a surprise for which he could scarce- 
ly account. 

“He is wholly friendless now; he is terribly 
alone ; and at the last I have found the courage 
to do my duty,” she said. 

“ Then the little girl — Tots — ” 

“ Is mine. God bless her, yes. It was his 
promise that I should have the child back, it 
was the revelation that she lived, that kept me 
silent when my suspicions might have given a 
clew to the truths which perplexed you. To have 
betrayed him at that bitter hour was to kill my 
little girl. He swore it — and I knew how des- 
perate a man he was years ago,” she added, sad- 
ly. “ When he first came to Sedge Hill I wrote, 
warning you of danger, but not knowing what the 
danger was, which threatened Sarah Eastbell.” 

“ I see,” murmured Reuben Cuhvick. 

“I was a woman in the toils, and knew not 
what to do,” she continued. “ When Sarah had 
disappeared he said she should return in safety 
to Sedge Hill if I would keep my peace, and I 
was forced to trust him. Ah, Sir! do not blame 
me too harshly : it was my child’s life, my child’s 
happiness, against Sarah Eastbell’s, and" I acted 
like a mother, in the one hope of clasping her 
to my heart. I could not have brought your 
cousin back had I owned that man for my hus- 
band ; I was in the dark with you — and my little 
Bessie lived.” 

“I understand,” said Reuben, still thought- 
fully. 

“ When the child did not come to me, when 
I thought he had deceived me, I grew mad and 
desperate. It was I who set the police in search 
of Edward Peterson — who gave the clew by which 
they knew where to find him— who accompanied 
them to identify a man of whom they had been 
long in search— who betrayed him, and brought 
about this tragedy. Heaven help me !” she add- 
ed, very sorrowfully, “ I have been always in the 
wrong. ” 

“ What does he say ?” 

“ He has not forgiven me,” she said ; “ but I 
am at his side to the last — asking for no thanks, 
expecting none.” . 

“ Is there any hope of his life?” 

“Not any.” 

“ Is he aware of his approaching end ?” 

“At times,” was the reply; “and at times 
he loses all recollection of his danger, and talks 
of a future which can never come.” 

“And you love this man?” 

She answered, “ He killed my love vears ago. 

I do my duty in calm apathy— that is all.” 

“ Poor woman!” 

“ Years ago he was my hero. He was honest 


then, and I was very young,” she said. “We 
were married secretly. When he grew tired of 
me, when he went wrong, he abandoned me 
without remorse, and took my child with him in 
a spirit of revenge that nearly broke my heart. 
My marriage and that child’s birth were not 
known to the world I found at Worcester, al- 
though your mother always doubted me. I tried 
hard to live apart from the past when I believed 
my little girl was dead, but it all came back last 
autumn. This,” she added, almost bitterly, “is 
a strange time for explanation.” 

“I have not come for explanation ; I have no 
right to demand it,” said Reuben; “but let me 
ask if my father knew of your marriage to Ed- 
ward Peterson.” 

“I dared not tell him. I was very poor; I 
was alone in the world, without a friend, and he 
had confidence in me, and liked me for my dead 
father’s sake. Would he have wished you to 
marry me, had he dreamed of this ?” she added, 
with an impressive gesture toward the door of 
the sick-room. 

“ Why did he wish this marriage ?” said Reu- 
ben. 

“ He told me on the day he died that he had 
ruined my father — deceived him in some way 
of business, and got rich by his disgrace,” she 
said. “Heaven knows if this were true, or the 
wanderings of a demented mind. It is beyond 
our guessing at, and belongs not to our present 
lives. ” 

“Mary Holland, it was true,” said Reuben, 
solemnly; “ I bring a proof of it in his atone- 
ment — reparation. ” 

“ Impossible.” 

“ He has left you all his money.” 

There was a wild scream — an awful yell from 
the room which Mary Holland, or rather Mary 
Peterson, had quitted, and Mary ran back into 
the chamber, followed by Reuben, in his haste to 
be of assistance to the affrighted woman. 

It was only a cry of delight. Captain Peter- 
son had heard all the news. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

EDWARD PETERSON LOOKS FORWARD. 

The man sick unto death lay in his bed a prey 
to violent excitement, Reuben saw at the first 
glance as he stood with Mary looking down at 
Edward Peterson. The eye's were widely dis- 
tended, and two claw-like "hands had clutched 
at the bed-curtains in a vain effort to raise the 
body, while the whole room vibrated with the 
passion that shook the sufferer. It was a ghast- 
ly face that met Reuben Culwick’s at this junc- 
ture, and the terrible earnestness and greed stamp- 
ed on it were not a pleasant sight to witness. 

“Is it all true?” lie gasped forth, turning to 
Reuben as if to a friend in whom, in this crisis 
of his life, he might rely. 

“It is true,” responded our hero. 

“That she has got the money— that it is all 
left to her. For God’s sake, dqn’t keep me in 
suspense ! Think what a deal depends upon my 
being calm just now,” he cried. 

“ All the money is left to Mary Holland,” an- 
swered Reuben. 

“How is it — how is it that — that — this can 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


be?” he inquired, catching at Reuben’s hand, and 
clasping it with his trembling fingers. “You see 
how excited I am, but I can bear good news. 
Good news will save me yet— please Heaven.” 

Reuben looked across at Mary, who said, in a 
low tone, 

“Tell him.” 

“There has been discovered another will, 
signed by my father the day before his death.” 

“ Yes — yes — go on.” 

“In it my father bequeaths the whole of his 
property to his faithful friend and housekeeper, 
Mary Holland.” v ’ 

“That’s my wife,” said Peterson, quicklv. 
“ Don’t forget she’s my wife. We were legally 
married years ago, upon my soul — I swear it — 
it’s easily proved. Isn’t it easily proved, Mary? 
Tell him so. Don’t stare at me like that.” 

“Yes, I am his wife,” said Mary, thus ap- 
pealed to ; “lam not Mary Holland.” 

“Oh, that makes no difference,” cried Peter- 
son; “you were Mary Holland; you have al- 
ways been known by that name to old Culwick, 
and it’s your money — by Heaven it is ! I know 
law enough for that. All yours— and all your 
husband’s. Why, it’s as clear as daylight. This 
brings me — back — to — life ! ” 

The fingers relaxed their grasp of Reuben’s, 
the eyes closed, and a dull leaden hue spread 
itself over the face. 

“ He is dying,” cried Reuben. 

“No,” said the wife ; “it is only the reaction 
which has exhausted him.” 

She placed a glass to his lips, and he drank 
with difficulty of the spirit which it contained, 
after which his eyes opened, and he lay and look- 
ed at them, his breath flickering at his gray lips 
like a dying man’s. He was too weak to speak, 
and, conscious of his weakness, he lay and gath- 
ered power to himself, watching the wife and vis- 
itor meanwhile. 

“ Why did you come at such a time as this ?” 
Mary said, reproachfully. 

“ I was anxious you should know the truth.” 

“ I knew it long ago,” she answered. 

Reuben uttered an exclamation of surprise. 

“Was not the will given to me ?” she asked. 

“But you were unaware of its contents?” 

“No,” said Mary; “he told me on the day 
he left for London what was in the will intrust- 
ed to my care. ” 

“ And you have not acted upon it — you have 
suffered a prior will to be proved — you have pre- 
ferred to be poor!” he cried. 

“I have preferred, Reuben Culwick, to wait,” 
she said, coldly, “ to see who were my friends or 
enemies — who loved me a little, and who dis- 
trusted me altogether. Take that for all the an- 
swer I can afford you now.” 

“Where — is — the will?” said a voice like a 
sick child’s. 

They turned. Edward Peterson’s interest had 
re-awakened in the great question of his life — of 
the little life that was left in him. 

“I have brought it with me.” 

“Give it — to me,” said Peterson; “it isn’t 
safe in other hands. I — I will keep it till I’m — 
stronger.” 

Reuben hesitated. 

“Let him have it,” said the wife, carelessly; 
“it will calm him, and rest is necessary.” 

“ I would prefer your taking it, Mrs. Peter- 


139 

son,” said Reuben, producing the will ; “better 
still to leave it with a trustworthy solicitor to act 
upon. There will be no opposition to it in any 
way from Sarah Eastbell.” 

“It will be safe enough in my husband’s keep- 
ing,” said Mary, with strange listlessness. 

Reuben gave her the will, and she crossed with 
it to her husband’s side, and placed it in his 
hands, which with great difficulty began to un- 
fold the paper on which Simon Culwick’s last 
testament was written. 

“I — I shall be glad — when I’m better,” Ed- 
ward Peterson whispered at last; “you can put 
it under my pillow — now.” 

Mary did so at his request. 

“ We may begin a different life together now, 
Mary,” he said, with a sudden tenderness in his 
weak tone of voice that was startling at that 
time. “I only wanted to be rich; it was pov- 
erty that made me bad, that turned me wrong 
altogether.” 

“Don’t speak any more,” adjured his wife. 

“You kept this back — because you were — 
afraid of me ?” 

There was no reply. 

“Why don’t you answer?” he cried, queru- 
lously. 

“ I was afraid of you,” she replied ; “I knew 
that with these riches there would come from you 
cruelty and oppression. I was happier in my de- 
pendence.” 

“ But — when I get better?” 

She looked sadly at him. 

“ When you get better, Edward, we will claim 
the money which Simon Culwick has left me.” 

“ That’s a good— girl. That’s well,” he cried, 
exultantly. “I thought, Mary, there was some 
plant in this. I couldn’t see why — ” 

“ Couldn’t see what ?” inquired his wife, as he 
came suddenly to a full stop. 

“I couldn’t see why you should care for me like 
this, after the scamp that I have — been — to you.” 

“ I betrayed you in my rage and haste. ’ It is 
all my work,” she said, regretfully, “ and I am 
at your side again. ” 

“ It was a mad trick, certainly,” he muttered ; 
“ and you— couldn’t trust me. Ah ! that’s like 
a woman!” 

“It is like a woman, Peterson, to take her 
place here, wife and nurse and comforter, in the 
hour of your distress,” said Reuben. 

Edward Peterson looked hard at Reuben Cul- 
wick, and a faint smile hovered at his lips. 

“ Are you a preacher?” he asked. 

“No.” 

“Then you must be trying to come round 
Mary — though, mark my words, she is not going 
to be a rich widow — yet awhile.” 

“Peace!” she murmured. 

“I am — going to take care — of Marv now. 
We’ve forgotten our — old quarrels. It’s all made 
up — we shall be happy — and rich — and very rich 
together. I wasn’t always — a rascal, Sir.” 

“And the child ?” Reuben asked, curiously. 

A gesture, quick and deprecatory, from Mary 
Holland came too late to arrest the question, or 
to check the excitement of the prostrate vaga- 
bond, who half raised himself in bed in his ve- 
hemence. 

“ I’ll never see the child again — I’d rather die 
than see her. She shall never be more than the 
beggar’s brat she is !” he shouted. 


140 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“ What has she done?” 

“She turned against her own father; when 
there was a chance of making money, it was she, 
that cursed child, who betrayed me. My own 
child — the only thing I ever cared for. May 
she—” 

The color vanished from his face again, and 
once more the leaden hue suffused it, and the 
eyes closed as by the pressure of the hand of 
death itself upon them. Mary was at his side 
with the stimulant ; when life seemed coming 
slowly back again, she said to Reuben, 

“Leave me now. You see what he is — what 
he has ever been.” 

“We shall meet again.” 

“Yes. Take care of Bessie till I come for 
her.” 

“If I could help you in any way,” said Reu- 
ben — “if Sarah Eastbell could* be of service here 
with you — if — ” 

“I would prefer to be alone— to the end,” she 
said, in a low tone. 

Reuben passed from the room, and left the dy- 
ing man to his strange wife’s care. He had done 
his duty — he had surrendered his father’s will 
into the hands of those whom it was to benefit, 
and it had been coldly, almost unthankfully, re- 
ceived. Let him get back to Sarah Eastbell, and 
to the brighter life wherein she moved. 


CHAPTER IX. 

JOHN DELIVERS HIS MESSAGE. 

John Jennings departed on his mission to Sa- 
rah Eastbell late that Saturday evening in good 
faith. It was never a pleasant task to face his 
sister Lucy, at whose house Sarah was residing, 
for Lucy was always “down” upon him, and 
taking him to task for his numerous transgres- 
sions. Certainly Sarah would be at home, and 
that would be some recompense, although Lucy 
would not study her company, or “ let him have 
it” less on account of the presence of a visitor. 
He was not drunk ; he had not been too often 
to his favorite bars; but there was the painful 
consciousness of a certain amount of whisky in 
his system that it was impossible to disguise from 
his lynx-eyed sister. 

Reuben had seen it, and taxed him with it ; 
and Lucy, unless she was particularly busy that 
evening and it being Saturday evening, when 
the sermons of to-morrow had to be considered, 
he prayed fervently she might be— would per- 
ceive it also. 

John Jennings went down Bow Street, and 
crawled over Waterloo Bridge for the second 
time that day, like a man going to be hanged ; 
and he thought so much of his meeting with 
Lucy, and so little of the nature of his errand, 
that he had only a confused idea of the message 
he had been intrusted to deliver, when he was 
clinging to the railings of the house on the first 
floor of which Miss Jennings resided. 

Yes, poor John was very weak. It is chari- 
table to believe that constant explosions of gun- 
powder had shattered his nerves as much as 
diam-di inking ; but he could not face his sister 
again, so close upon her “Sunday conversation,” 
too, without a further stimulant. He tried and 
failed, for he put his hand on the knocker, and 


then fairly ran across the road to a gin-palace, 
where, at a small outlay, he fortified his nerves 
for the ordeal. 

It was half an hour later in the night when he 
knocked at the door, and was presently stum- 
bling up the stairs, a limp and miserable visitor. 
His modest tap at the door of the first floor was 
answered so quickly by a sharp “ Come in !” that 
he went down two steps in dismay before he re- 
sumed his progress, and entered the room with 
gravity and decorum. He was not prepared at 
the York Road lodgings for half a dozen people 
besides his sister and Miss Eastbell, but he was 
glad to see them nevertheless. In a small crowd 
like this he might escape observation or com- 
ment. Lucy was at a table covered with books 
and papers, and Sarah Eastbell at her side was 
evidently acting as her amanuensis. The men 
and women in the room were poor, cadaverous 
beings connected with the Jennings mission, and 
the order of the establishment under the railway 
arch to-morrow, and were receiving their final in- 
structions after general rule. There were books 
and tracts to give out, and reports of the day’s 
proceedings to hear; and other co-operators in 
Lucy’s good work followed John Jennings’s ad- 
vent, and sandwiched him in with serious-mind- 
ed folk, and kept him from the fire and the door. 

Lucy saw him on his first arrival, and Sarah 
smiled at him a welcome ; but no one inquired 
his business, until an angular man on crutches at 
his side asked if he were a new convert to the 
blessed work. John Jennings shook his head, 
and said he wasn’t, at which piece of information 
the cripple hung on to the lappets of John’s coat, 
and tried to convert him on the spot. 

“ Let him be, Hood,” said Lucy Jennings, 
whom nothing escaped; “there is no hope for 
him. Where I have failed, you will foil.” 

“ But we can’t give him up.” 

“You can let go my coat, though,” said John 
Jennings, crossly. “ What am I to do for but- 
tons if you pull me about like this ?” 

“ He is only a drunken brother of mine,” said 
Lucy, scornfully. “ Take no heed of him ; he 
is not in a fit state to be reasoned with upon 
the enormity of his iniquities,” said Lucy, more 
sharply. 

“ Oh, I didn’t want to come here ! ” cried John. 
“I’ve brought a message from Mr. Culwick, 
that’s all.” 

“ Give it to me, and go, then,” said Lucy. 

“ It s not a letter. It’s a verbal com-com- 
communication.” 

“ I am sorry for it. Wait.” 

John Jennings found his way to the fire and 
to a chair, which he occupied in a sullen spirit, 
until he fell asleep with his chin upon his dirtv 
shirt. How long he slept he never knew, but it 
was a deep and profound slumber, with so much 
murmuring in his ears that he dreamed he was 
in Clare Market, haggling for to-morrow’s din- 
ner, until a heavy joint fell on him from the 
shop-blind of the butcher’s, and he woke up with 
Lucy’s hand upon his shoulder. 

The room was empty of its visitors. Lucy was 
standing by his side, grimmer than ever, and 
Sarah Eastbell was sitting opposite, watch in 0- 
him intently. 

“Have you slept away your drunkenness, do 
you think?’’ asked Lucy. 

“ I haven t been asleep,” said John. 


141 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“Oh, John! I think you have,” cried Sarah. 

“Well, I may have' dozed,” he confessed: 
“just a little.” 

“ What message have you brought from Mr. 
Culwick ?” asked Sarah, very anxiously. 

“What message? Ah! that’s it! Wait a 
moment.” 

Lucy and Sarah waited several minutes, but 
John Jennings did not collect his faculties to- 
gether until Lucy told him to call to-morrow 
morning early, before the service commenced 
under the railway arch, if his message were real- 
ly of importance. Then he dashed at something 
like the truth in his haste and confusion. 

“Mr. Reuben won’t be here to-morrow.” 

Sarah Eastbell felt her heart sink, for she had 
not seen Reuben for many days, and he had put 
off calling on that evening, and she had looked 
forward longingly to his Sunday visit to her — 
with wicked worldly eyes, Lucy had already af- 
firmed. 

“Not coming?” said Sarah, with a sigh. 
“Did he say why he had altered his mind 
again ?” 

“ No— yes— yes, he did. He was going into 
the country with Miss Holland.” 

There was a long silence after this explana- 
tion, and Lucy and Sarah looked at each other 
in a strange way, which John Jennings was not 
able to comprehend. 

“What did I tell you long ago?” said Lucy, 
in a low tone. 


CHAPTER X. 

A FEW WORDS. 

The inquiry which Lucy Jennings put to Sa- 
rah Eastbell was not responded to ; the younger 
woman had turned her head away, and was look- 
ing very thoughtfully at the fire. 

“Reuben Culwick knows where Miss Holland 
is, then ?” Lucy asked of her brother. 

“ Oh yes, he knows.” 

“ Do you?” 

“It’s in the country somewhere.” 

“Worcester?” suggested his sister. 

“ Yes, Worcester ; that’s it.” 

“Then he started for Worcester this evening?” 

“ Yes ; that’s it again.” 

Lucy had no further questions to ask, and Sa- 
rah remained silent. John, half sleepy still, and 
half confused, rose to his feet and walked to- 
ward the door. He was conscious that he had 
not fulfilled his mission to perfection, but why he 
had blundered, or in what particular, he could 
not understand for the life of him. He had not 
made any mistake ; but Lucy was looking very 
grave, and Sarah Eastbell did not speak to him. 
When he was at the door, Sarah’s voice arrested 
him, however. 

“Did he say, John, when he should return?” 

“Oh yes; I had forgotten that. On Monday.” 

“ Good-night, John. Thank you for calling.” 

“Thank you,” he answered, with a certain 
amount of emphasis. 

“ What for?” asked Lucy, sharply. 

“For many things. For not treating me 
quite like a brute,” he added, with a flash of 
spirit. 

“ Are you any better than a brute, to call here 
in this condition ?” asked his sister. 


“ I’m in very good condition,” said John ; “I 
don t see any thing the matter with me.” 

“ W hen you do, when you are sure of what a 
poor degraded being you have become, I shall be 
glad, for it will be a sign of vour repentance. It 
will be—” 

“ Good-evening,” said John Jennings, darting 
with alacrity from the room to escape the sermon 
which threatened him. Pie had delivered his 
message — it was correct in all its details, he was 
certain — and he was not drunk. If he had taken 
too much whisky, he would have blurted out that 
Reuben had met Thomas Eastbell, and so have 
frightened Sarah, who was afraid of her vaga- 
bond brother, he knew. They had not received 
his message cheerfully; they were disappointed 
at Reuben’s putting off his visit to them ; but that 
was not his fault. He had done his best, and 
that Lucy had not received him cordially or 
treated him well was only what he had expected 
from the first. 

When the street door was heard to slam be- 
hind John Jennings, Lucy rose and moved about 
the room, putting her books and papers away, 
and setting the place in order for the night. Sa- 
rah did not help her; with her hands clutching 
her rounded chin, and her great dark eyes fixed 
upon the fire, she had passed away into a world 
of her own, wherein there was speculation and 
doubt. The stern woman, whose weakness it was 
to think herself above the world, glanced at her 
from the background with more sympathy upon 
her face than she was in the habit of exhibiting 
in Sarah Eastbell’s affairs as a rule. Sarah was 
downcast and disheartened that night, and Lucy 
watched her furtively. There was trouble at the 
heart of Sarah Eastbell, and for Sarah's good 
she had planted it there by a few meaning words, 
not knowing what was best for her for all that. 
She thought that she did — but then she was not 
always right, poor Lucy ! 

She came back to Sarah’s side at last, and 
drew her chair more closely to her. Sarah did 
not know that she was there until Lucy touched 
her hand. 

“You are seeing the truth as I saw it long 
ago,” said Lucy, very gently, to her ; “ I warned 
you to prepare for it.” 

“ No,” said Sarah, hesitatingly ; “ I do not see 
it yet as you see it.” 

“ He comes less often here.” 

“Because his work accumulates,” answered 
Sarah, quickly; “not because he is tired of me. 
Ah, Lucy! you would not ask me to believe 
that if you knew how much I loved him.” 

“I do not ask you to believe any thing,” said 
Lucy, querulously. 

“You are too suspicious of Reuben.” 

“I suspicious! What next?” 

Lucy objected to the accusation. She had 
never been able to see her own faults clearly, and 
yet she believed that she judged herself unspar- 
ingly. It is the natural weakness of such good 
folk as Lucy Jennings sometimes. 

“You consider Reuben is inventing excuses 
to keep away.” 

“I consider Reuben is very poor, and must 
work. I do not dispute that he loses money ev- 
ery time he spends an evening in this house — do 
you ?” asked Lucy. 

“ Ah ! ‘my poor Reuben, whom I can not help 
any longer!” cried Sarah, brushing some tears 


142 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


from her eyes with a hasty hand ; “yes, he loses 
time and money — not very often now,” she add- 
ed, with a sigh. 

“He does not tell you he is poor,” Lucy con- 
tinued ; “ he is too proud for that ; and when he 
says he is not busy, and comes here, I am dis- 
trustful of the truth of his statement. But that 
is not being suspicious.” 

Sarah Eastbell did not feel disposed to con- 
tinue the argument. In argument Lucy gener- 
ally lost her temper, more especially when Reu- 
ben Culwick was the subject under discussion. 

Lucy returned to the charge, however. 

“I said a week or two ago that Reuben knew 
where Mary Holland was, but did not care to 
tell you.” 

“ Why ?” 

“Because the discovery of her is complete 
poverty for you. ” 

“I am not afraid of poverty.” 

“He is.” 

“No, Lucy — no,” cried Sarah, still more en- 
ergetically ; “ don’t tell me so. 1 am afraid of 
that — I try to keep it back!” 

“I have seen it for some time, ’’replied Lucy, 
pityingly ; ‘ ‘ but is it not better to face the truth 
than to hide from it, when the truth tramps on 
and gets bigger every day ?” 

“I know, Lucy, what you think would be 
best now,” said Sarah. 

“Well— what?” 

“That Reuben should marry Miss Holland.” 

“It would be better for, him — yes,” was the 
moody answer. 

“ He does not think so.” 

“ He does not say so,” answered Lucy. “ He 
would never say it. He is pledged to you, and 
will marry you unless you release him of your 
own free-will. And, Sarah, however hard and 
cruel my advice may seem,” she ’added, solemn- 
ly, laying her hand upon Sarah’s arm again, “it 
is the best for both of you.” 

“I try not to believe it,” murmured Sarah, 
bowing her head lower. 

“He has a right to his father’s possessions; 
it was his father's wish, long ago, that he should 
marry Miss Holland. Has he not told us both 
so with many a forced jest ?” 

“ He has laughed at others arranging his life 
for him, that’s all.” 

“ What is this new will but the father’s latest 
effort to bring a stubborn son to his senses — 
perhaps to a sense of justice?” said Lucy, rest- 
lessly. 

“What do you mean?” asked Sarah, very 
quickly now. 

“Don’t ask me.” 

“Tell me what you mean,” demanded Sarah, 
almost peremptorily. 

“ It is a thought which has haunted me for 
years,” said Lucy, very gloomily ; “ but you had 
better leave me with it.” 

“No, not now.” 

‘ ‘ Call it a suspicion— I don’t mind, ” said Lucy. 

“ Heaven send I am in the wrong, in part ; but 
men are weak and vain and wicked, all of them ! 
\\ by should Reuben Culwick be an exception ?” 

“Tell me what is on your mind, Lucy.” 

Lucy still hesitated, "it was a bitter thought, 
which she preferred to keep rankling in her own 
heart, but Sarah persisted. 

“ Lucy, I will know,” she cried. 


“ Not from me,” said Lucy, “unless you guess 
already.” 

“You would imply — you dare to imply — that 
the father wished this marriage between them 
because it was the one honorable act of repara- 
tion which Reuben could make to Mary Hol- 
land,” cried Sarah — “ha! is that it?” 

“God knows,” answered Lucy; “but I have 
thought so — yes. ” 

“Then Heaven have mercy upon me!” cried 
Sarah, breaking down at last, and sobbing very 
passionately; “for if this is truth, 1 will never 
believe in any thing again.” 

“Sarah Eastbell, you are foolish and wicked 
to say that.” 

“ What have you said to-night?” was the pas- 
sionate rejoinder. “He never saw her till he 
came to Worcester — till he — ” 

Sarah broke down again, and Lucy regarded 
her with more concern. The abandonment to 
grief of this young woman melted her once 
more. 

“I have no proof of this, remember,” Lucy 
said ; “it may be the promptings of an evil heart 
that will not let me think the best of him, but I 
have grown gray brooding over it. The father’s 
wish— the quarrel between them — this last will — 
the child Reuben cares for so strangely, and 
whose loss changed him so much till he recover- 
ed her — the likeness of the child to Mary Hol- 
land—” 

‘ ‘ Ha ! ” cried Sarah again. 

“These seem to be links of a miserable com- 
monplace story of man’s crime and woman’s 
weakness.” 

“You are wrong,” cried Sarah. 

“ I pray I am, with all my soul,” said Lucv. 

“ You are very wrong,” Sarah added, in a low- 
er tone, and Lucy repeated her wish that she 
might be ; after which the two women stared at 
the fire together, seeing different scenes therein, 
and reading each other’s hearts with singular in- 
correctness. 

They were a long while silent, and it was Sa- 
rah Eastbell who spoke first — who turned at last 
to Lucy, and looked very curiously at her as she 
spoke. 

“How you must hate him, Lucy !” she said. 

“ Hate whom ?” asked Lucy, with a start. 

“Poor Reuben.” 

“ Why do you think I hate him ?” she inquired, 
in a husky w’hisper. 

“ You think so meanly of him ; there come to 
your mind such terrible suspicions,” Sarah said, 
shuddering. “ Any one who had ever cared for 
him, who had ever known him, as it seems to 
me, would have set him in a brighter light than 
you do. That I should give him up because for 
all his life I should be a’clog upon him, is good 
advice perhaps ; but, Lucy, I should value it 
more highly if you respected this honest fellow 
more.” 

“You— you reproach me!" cried Lucy, indig- 
nantly. * 

“Why not, when you degrade one I love so 
much when, in your aversion, you invent these 
awful charges against his honor and good name ?” 

“ My aversion— my hate ! ” cried Lucy : ‘ ‘ you 
fool of a girl, I loved him with all mv soul before 
he ever saw you!” 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A PASSING TEMPEST. 


It was a strong outburst of passion that took 
the staid Miss Jennings out of herself, and trans- 
formed her into a jealous and excitable woman. 
~arah Eastbell s accusation must have struck 
home for the preacher to have given way in this 
fashion to have owned that she was as weak 
and susceptible as the timid girl who shrank away 
fiom her. In all the dull cold life of Lucy Jen- 
nings, and under every circumstance thereof, she 
had treasured up this secret until now; she had 
fought against her passion and its hopelessness ; 
she had kept strong and rigid and unswerving, 
till Saiah s accusation had overcome, suddenly 
and strangely, the self-command upon which she 
had ever prided her poor self. It was a virago 
rather than a woman who glared at Sarah with 
gleaming eyes, and hands clinched menacingly. 
Well foi Lucy Jennings was it that religion had 
taken a firm hold of her, and turned a strong 
will and fierce nature into a channel of self-sac- 
rifice and prayer, or she might have been swept 
away by the current which forever surges round 
our humankind. Religion saved her. If she 
had not become a gentle and amiable woman, it 
had given her work to do, and set her in a sphere 
wherein she had become useful • and from this 
stoim even much good might follow in due 
course, teaching her in after-days the lesson of 
more humility and patience. 

“ You— you loved Reuben !” exclaimed Sarah, 
in her first surprise. 

“Ay, you may well glare,” cried Lucy, who 
was terribly roused now; “you may well turn 
pale at the madness that is in me. Yes, I loved 
him. What else on earth have I ever had to 
love in all my wretched life but that man ? I 
would have died for him at any time, if he had 
asked me. I would have been his slave, and 
thanked God for my bondage. I have prayed 
to Heaven for one kind word from him — he has 
stood between me and Heaven very often !” 

“My poor Lucy!” said Sarah, in a soft, low 
whisper. 

“Don’t pity me — don’t talk to me in that 
way!” cried Lucy, violently. “Did I ever pity 
you, or do any thing but hate you for liking Reu- 
ben, and for Reuben’s liking you ? What are 
you but a child — what should lie have seen in 
you but a baby’s face, a baby’s heart, and a 
trick of being grateful ? W T hv should he be a 
beggar all his life because he asked you to marry 
him when his inheritance had been stolen from 
him by vour grandmother? Do you think I 
want consolation from you, of alf the people 
in the world, w'ho have vexed me nearly unto 
death ?” 

Sarah did not reply. This was a storm there 
was no quelling, she felt assured. It was the re- 
action after long years of self- repression, and 
must burn itself away. The face strangely con- 
vulsed, the fiery eyes, the figure swaying on the 
chair, the restless hands forever clinched togeth- 
er, were all witnesses to it. 

‘ ‘ But he never knew of this — I would have kill- 
ed myself with shame if he had ever guessed it — 

I could kill you now if you were to tell him what 
your taunts have dragged out of my heart in this 
way,” she raved on. “It was an agony to love 
him — there was no grain of comfort in it ; if he 


143 

had died, I should have been happier. I felt he 
despised me — ” 

“No, no !” cried Sarah, at this juncture. 

. That he laughed at me, that he tried at 
times to make me hate him, that my poor wavs, 
my bad temper, my mean house, this mean face 
with which I have been cursed,” she cried, strik- 
ing it passionately with her right hand, “were 
all matters for his jest or his indifference. I 
was nothing to him, not for one minute of his 
and he to me was all I cared to live for. I 
gave him taunt for taunt at times ; but — 0 my 

God ! you know how much I have loved him to 
this day !” 

“And yet — ” began Sarah. 

“And yet I saw his faults, distrusted him, 
knew that there were in the world hundreds of 
better men— is that what you were going to say ?’’ 
she asked, fiercely. 

“Hardly; but — ” 

“ Don’t ask me any questions. You see what 
a wretch I am — how cast down, and torn away 
fiom every thought that should give me peace 
if I were what I try to be. ” 

There was a low, long wail, and a sudden and 
passionate rain of tears— an utter collapse to a 
grief which saved her, and made her woman-like 
and hysterical. Sarah let her weep and sob, and 
made no effort to compose her ; the younger 
w'oman felt that it w r as best to leave her thus, 
that the brain which had rocked strangelv in the 
storm would more quickly compose itself if she 
attempted no consolation. She stole from the 
room when Lucy was cowering in her chair, with 
her hands outspread before her eyes, and it was 
half an hour later when she returned to her side. 

Lucy Jennings Avas reading her Bible, Avith her 
hands clutching her temples, her gray hair push- 
ed back, and her elboAvs planted firmly on each 
side of the book Avhich she studied. 

“Are you going to sit up late to-night ?” Sa- 
rah said, gently. 

“ A little Avhile longer,” was the sIoav reply. 

“ Are you well now ?” she asked, timidly. 
“Yes,” Lucy ansAvered. 

“May I kiss you before I say good-night?” 
said Sarah ; “ may I think that Ave are more like 
sisters hoav, Lucy ?” 

“ You should despise me,” she said, humbly. 
“No!”Avas the quick denial; “I think I un- 
derstand you at last.” 

“ And love me none the less, child ?” 

“Ah, no,” said Sarah. 

“ We may be sisters soon, then — perhaps, in 
adversity together, Ave may grow to like each 
other more, ’’she added, mournfully. 

“ Good-night,” said Sarah, kissing her. 

“ Good-night. God bless you,” ansAvered Lucy 
Jennings. 


CHAPTER XII. 

SARAH MAKES UP HER MIND AGAIN. 


It Avas the old position — and yet Avith a grave 
difference. It was the old line of argument crop- 
ping up afresh in Sarah Eastbell’s mind, Avith no 
Reuben Cuhvick at hand to laugh doAvn her logic 
— Avith Reuben Culwick’s poAver to laugh it down 
perhaps Avonderfully diminished. 

She must give him up — she must not remain 
that weight upon his life, that clog upon his in- 


144 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


dustry, which she had always thought she was 
when her love was not bewildering her too much. 
Reuben loved her, she hoped still — she did not 
put faith in those strange suspicions of Lucy Jen- 
nings which preceded a stranger confession ; but 
Lucy was right in one thing — that she, Sarah 
Eastbell, could not add to the happiness of Reu- 
ben Culwick’s life. She could only add to the 
expenses ; she could only keep him poor. If 


She was very silent all that Sunday, very pa- 
tient and thoughtful and heart-sick, as a good 
woman resigned to the inevitable might be, know- 
ing the mighty difference that her own sacrifice 
would make to every hour of her after-life. She 
went with Lucy to the service under the railway 
arch, and strove hard to interest herself in Lucy’s 
prayers and Lucy’s sermon ; but despite Lucy’s 
being extra powerful, extra severe on her own 



she stood apart now, perhaps he would marry 
Mary Holland, and be master of his father's 
house again, just as the father had wished from 
the first. She had no right to bind him to this 
long engagement, to shackle his energies, to keep 
him from “ bettering” himself, now that she felt 
herself as poor — morally if not legally as poor — 
as when he came in search of her to Potter’s 
Court. 


particular failings — as Sarah saw at once — she 
could not follow the extempore devotions or the 
rough eloquence of the speaker. It was a quiet 
morning at these Sunday services; those who came 
to pray were not disturbed by those who came to 
scoff; but the evening was boisterous and stormy, 
and made up for it. Lucy Jennings read the 
signs of it in the noisy crowd about the door, 
and compressed her lips and held her breath at 



the strong language which echoed from the street 
as she and Sarah approached, under the escort 
of two policemen, who were waiting for them 
You are trembling— you are afraid,” said 
Lucy Jennings to her companion. “Will vou 
turn back now ?” y 

“Why?” 

• L?^ er ®j W T* k ut little religion there to- 
night, said Lucy, “and you are not a strong 
woman. 6 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


145 

up her mind now, and the sooner the truth was 
told him the better. He gave her the opportu- 
nity to speak at once, and her impulsiveness 
leaped toward it indiscreetly, desperately. 

“I saw Miss Holland this morning; I gave 
her the will— and, by Jove, you are as poor as 
old Job, girl]” 


I was not thinking of the crowd or the serv- 
ice, answered Sarah. 

I; Of what, then?” was the sharp inquiry. 

Of all I shall say to Reuben presently. It’s 
very wrong, I know, Lucy, but you must not 
blame me for thinking of him so much. I can’t 
help it, she said, plaintively. 

“This is not a time or season for— What 
are you going to say to Reuben, then ?” she ask- 
ed, suddenly. 

for hilrake ’” 11 W ° U ' d Say ’ L " Cy ’ “ my pIace ~ 
“ 1 don,t know what I should say,” she re- 
plied ; “I am a terrible hypocrite, and despica- 
bly weak. r 

1 hey passed under the arch, where the service 
commenced, and was interrupted, where the old 
upioar went on, and the police were tolerably 
busy for an hour and a half, and where, amidst 
all the difficulties in the way, Lucv Jennings 
preached and pounded at sinj and worked her- 
self into a white heat, and was so especially elo- 
quent at last that the crowd at the doors was si- 
lenced if unconvinced ; and one tall man with a 
beard, who had recently arrived, and had kept 
guard as it were over the unruly, muttered to 
himself, * 

“It is her mission after all, perhaps.” 

The service came to an end, the stormy ele- 
ments subsided, men, women, and children went 
their various ways, and Lucy Jennings and Sa- 
rah Eastbell came out together, and confronted 
Reuben Culwick, who was waiting for them. 

“You have come back, then!” cried Sarah, 
in her first delight at seeing him, in her new for- 
getfulness of all that she had resolved upon. 

“Yes; it was no use stopping longer in 
Worcester, Sarah. — Well, Lucy.” 

“ Well,” answered Lucy, in her cold, short 
tones. 

“I congratulate you on your sermon, but I 
wish the surroundings had been more orthodox, 
and the congregation less quarrelsome ; for some 
of these days — ” 

Lucy was gone. She had suddenly “dou- 
bled,” and disappeared down one of the dark 
turnings, and Sarah and Reuben were left look- 
ing at each other. 

“There, I have offended her again,” cried 
Reuben; “she never will listen to a fellow, or 
hear a fellow out. Poor old girl! she would 
have led a husband — if she had ever caught one, 
Sarah— a very sensational kind of life. It’s no 
use waiting for her, I think. ” 

“No.” 

“She will be home before us, I dare say, be- 
ing well up in the back slums about here. Take 
my arm, little woman, while I tell you all the 
news.” 

Sarah Eastbell took his arm, and sighed. This 
might be the last time that they w'ould ever walk 
together thus — who could tell ? She had made 
Iv 


CHAPTER XIII. 

JEALOUS AT LAST. 

Reuben Culwick could afford to treat pov- 
erty as a jest still, unless this was histrionic dis- 
play to deceive and comfort Sarah Eastbell. If 
the latter, it. was a terrible failure, which sur- 
pnsed even himself when his second cousin spoke. 

Yes, Reuben, I have been waiting for this pov- 
erty to tell you that you must not share it with 
me.” 

“Indeed !” was his quiet answer. 

™"J ha J y0U and 1 are not fit for each other. 
Oh, Reuben,” she cried, “I am quite certain of 
it now! 

“Do you remember what I said on the day we 
first spoke of this down in Worcestershire ?” Reu- 
ben inquired. 

“Ah! every word.” 

And yet not one word left to pin a second 
cousin’s faith to!” he said, lightly. “Well, let 
us go over the old argument again.” 

“No, no,” she said, shrinking from him; 
you can’t convince me that it is better for our 
foolish engagement to continue.” 

“ Shall I tell you why ?” said Reuben, looking 
down very intently into her face. 

Sarah did not answer, and he continued, after 
a moment’s pause, 

“ Because Lucy Jennings — charming Lucy ! — 
has been at her old work, reckoning after her own 
style, fashioning out human lives after her own 
purposeless way, choosing for others a path ahead 
that no human being out of Bedlam could follow, 
doing every thing for the best and for one’s good, 
but scattering dust and ashes right and left like a 
violent Vesuvius. Come, is not Lucy Jennings 
at the bottom of this resolution ?” 

“I have been thinking of this for weeks. I 
have been seeing the necessity for it — ” 

“Ay, through Lucy’s spectacles.” 

“ You are hard on Lucy, Reuben.” 

“I say, God bless her for a well-meaning 
woman, Sarah,” said Reuben; “but if she had 
a trifle more consideration, more heart, it would 
be better for us all. I have left you too long, 
and the position or the companionship has un- 
nerved you. We must alter all this; there must 
be less work and more holiday- making. We 
will go to the pit of a theatre to-morrow as a 
start-off, girl. ” 

“You would lose money by coming to me,” 
said Sarah, mournfully. 

“Nonsense. I have begun to save money 
again. ” 

“Ah! Reuben, let us understand each other 
at last; don’t ask me to say any thing, do any 
thing, but end this unnatural position between 
us. I am unhappy.” 

“Because of this engagement?” 

“Yes.” 

“You are afraid of poverty with me?” 

“I am afraid of making you poorer than you 


14G 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


are — of keeping you poor all your life,” said Sa- 
rah. 

“Yes, you have been overdosed by the Jen- 
nings’ powders. I know their effect, and should 
have been more considerate,” said Reuben, caus- 
tically; “but then I had more faith in your 
courage.” 

More faith in her courage ! She who had 
the courage to resign him — who gave up her 
one hope of happiness lest he should grow un- 
happy presently. But he could not see this, or 
he would not see it, Heaven only knew which. 

“ I — ” she began, almost indignantly, when he 
stopped her. 

“If this is to be our last meeting, or our last 
parting, Sarah,” he said, quickly, “let it be 
marred by no harsh reminiscence. We are go- 
ing to say good-by. We have discovered that 
housekeeping expenses will shipwreck us ; that 
I shall grow in good time a big brute, to whom 
no second cousin’s devotion will bring comfort. 
But we need not quarrel over the discovery. We 
can part friends ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Sarah ; “the best of friends.” 

There was something in his manner that she 
hardly fathomed. She had been more prepared 
for an angry outburst than for this easy-going 
style of acquiescence. 

“It is hardly justice,” he continued; “ for you, 
who would have married a poor man, will not let 
me marrv a poor woman in my turn. You want 
all the self-sacrifice on one side, Sarah ; and even 
my good luck with my pen is turned into a weap- 
on against me. But,” he added, “we will not 
quarrel. Never an angry word between these 
two blundering relatives who do not know their 
own minds.” 

“ I know that — ” 

“No, Sarah, I am sure you don’t,” he said, 
interrupting her again ; “ but we will not argue 
about it, and wound our feelings unnecessarily. 
We will spare each other between this and the 
York Road. We will wait till Miss Holland 
gives us her opinion on the matter.” 

“Miss Holland!” cried Sarah Eastbell. 
“ What do you mean?” 

“Miss Holland is in the York Road apart- 
ments. She came from Worcester with me this 
afternoon.” 

“ With you ! You went to escort her, then ?” 

“No. I went to see her, to tell her the news 
of her prosperity, and to offer my congratula- 
tions, after which I said good-morning.” 

“Well?” said Sarah, almost sharply now. 

“Well, an hour or two afterward she turned 
up at the railway station, and in common polite- 
ness I could but offer her my escort back to town. 
She was very anxious to see you, she said. ” 

“Ah ! she said so,” answered his second cous- 
in. There was no further argument after the 
introduction of Mary Holland’s name into the 
conversation. The harmony of their last even- 
ing together was effectually settled after that. 
Better to have ended all in a storm of words and 
tears than in the grave and unnatural silence 
which followed. Sarah had no idea that she 
was a jealous woman until then, for Lucy had 
not made her jealous last night — only roused in 
her a feeling of intense indignation at the suspi- 
cions which she had sown broadcast. But for 
Reuben Culwick to speak of Mary Holland in 
this off-hand way was a very different matter ; 


and her heart sank like a stone, and refused to 
stir any more with hope or pleasure, or even sur- 
prise. 

When they were in the York Road Reuben 
said, 

“She is not in good spirits, but I hope Tots 
has been a companion for her while we have been 
away. ” 

“ Is the child with her ?” 

“To be sure,” said Reuben; “is not Tots — 
But there, Mary will explain for herself.” 

“Mary!” echoed Sarah Eastbell. 

They went up stairs into the front-room on 
the first floor, where sat by the fii eside the young 
woman whom we have known by the name of 
Mary Holland. Tots was in her lap, with her 
child’s arm round her neck, and her little head 
soothed upon a mother’s bosom for the first time 
in her childish recollections. 

“It is her child, then!” said Sarah, in a low 
whisper. 

“Yes, to be sure,” answered Reuben, care- 
lessly. 

“I am in a dream,” murmured Sarah. 

“ But you are very close to the waking,” add- 
ed her cousin Reuben. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

CONFIDENCE. 

There was another inmate of the room which 
Reuben and his cousin had entered. Lucy Jen- 
nings was standing on the hearth-rug with her 
hands clasped together, and her grave white 
face turned toward mother and child. Reuben 
was right. She had reached home before them, 
having a better knowledge of the shortest cut to 
York Road than Reuben had. 

Mary looked round as the cousins came in to- 
gether, and a sad smile flickered on a face grown 
care-worn with anxiety. She did not raise her 
head from that of her child as Reuben and Sa- 
rah advanced, and Reuben said, 

“Mrs. Peterson, I have brought an old friend 
to shake hands with you — to express her regrets 
for all that past distrust which she has had as 
well as I. ” 

Sarah had only heard the first two words. 

“ Mrs. Peterson ! ” she exclaimed. “ Then you 
—you—” 

“I was Edward Peterson’s wife,” she added, 
wearily and sadly — “yes.” 

“ But not in the plot against you, Sarah,” said 
Reuben ; “ fighting for you in the first instance — 
writing to me to come to the rescue — kept forev- 
er in doubt concerning you — held down at last to 
silence bv the awful threat of her child’s death — 
believing in your safety through it all, and striv- 
ing once more for you and against her husband 
when she feared his treachery had deceived 
her.” 

“And he was true to his word,” Mary added, 
with a sigh, “for the first time in his life.” 

Sarah looked from Reuben to the companion 
and friend, and said, 

“I do not see how Edward Peterson — ” 

“It is a long story,” said Mary, interrupting 
her ; “ spare me for a few days the history of a 
school-girl’s secret marriage, a bitter repentance, 
a husband’s desertion, a long up-hill fight to for- 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAII. 


get a past that had become terrible and full of 
humiliation. I did not know then that Bessie 
lived” (clasping the child more tightly in her 
arms), “and was one link of love that held me 
to my old life.” 

She showered a hundred kisses on the child, 
"ho cowered at this passionate demonstration 
of affection, and at the sudden outburst of tears 
which followed it. Children can not love even 
their mothers at first sight ; and poor Tots, toss- 
ed from one heart to the other through her life, 
sprang from Mary’s lap and ran into Reuben’s 
arms as a safer shelter for her. 

“ She will soon grow used to you,” said Lucy 
Jennings, in a low voice. “You are too eager 
for the child’s affection.” 

“She will soon love me too, I hope. — Mr. 
Culwick, ” she said, turning to Reuben, and pass- 
ing her hand across her eyes, “I shall be a for- 
midable rival to you presently ; and, remember- 
ing all past kindness, past sacrifices of which 
Miss Jennings has told me, I shall be never jeal- 
ous of you.” 

“I told you not to say any thing about it,” 
muttered Lucy Jennings. 

“What have you been singing to my praises, 
Lucy ?” cried Reuben. 

“ I never praise any body,” answered Lucy. 

Sarah meanwhile had crossed to Mary Peter- 
son at last, and sat down by her side, and taken 
her by both hands. 

“Yours has been a strange life, and I have 
judged you wrongly in it,” she said. “If only 
for a little while, still it was a great wrong.” 

“ How do you know ?” asked Mary. 

“ Reuben says so, and — ” 

“ And you believe in Reuben — as vou always 
will.” 

Sarah Eastbell felt herself blushing, but she 
did not hazard a reply. 

“I have come to London for a few words of 
explanation, Sarah ; they are made at a sad time,” 
Mary said, “ but I could not rest, after Reuben’s 
visit to me — not even for an hour after my hus- 
band’s death.” 

“Edward Peterson is dead 1” exclaimed Sarah 
Eastbell. 

She was surprised : she hardly knew why, but 
she was sorry for his death. He had plotted 
against her — he would have killed her rather 
than let her escape without a ransom — but she 
did nT)t begrudge him his life. And it left Mary 
a young and pretty widow too — but what had 
that to do with it ? 

“ He died within an hour of your cousin’s visit 
this morning, ’’said Mary. 

“And you are here!” replied Sarah, wonder- 

ingly. 

“Ah! you can not understand that,” said . 
Mary — “you who will love your husband all 
your life. But my love was crushed out quick- 
ly, and only my duty took me to his bedside — 
my regret for the last mistake which brought 
about his death, and his last act of vengeance.” 

“His last act of vengeance!” repeated Sarah. 

“Half an hour after Mr. Culwick had left me 
my husband changed suddenly ; he wholly real- 
ized, and for the first time, that there was no 
hope for him in this world, and — what did he 
do ?” she added, with a shudder. 

“ He should have asked pardon of you for 
blighting your life,” said Sarah. 


147 

“ He should have sought pardon of his God,” 
added Lucy Jennings. 

“ He tore the last will of Simon Culwick into 
a hundred pieces, lest I should claim my right to 
riches by it,” answered Mary — “he cursed me, 
and he left me poor.” 

“But—” 

“But I have all the fragments,” added Mary, 
opening a purse heaped to the clasp with small 
pieces of paper. “ See — there they are. ” 

Sarah glanced at them, but did not speak. 

“ It would be a specimen of patchwork that 
the law would hardly acknowledge,” said the 
widow ; “ but you would not dispute the will, 
Sarah, it I, by patient study and great care, ren- 
der this testament complete again 

“ No,” answered Sarah Eastbell. 

“In my husband’s lifetime I dared not make 
him rich ; and now, in memory of much kind- 
ness, of old trust — of new confidence may I say ? 
— I have the courage to remain poor.” 

She held the open purse over the fire, and the 
fragments fell from it into the red coals. Both 
Reuben and Sarah started forward to arrest her 
hand, but it was too late. 

“You should not have done this,” cried Reuben. 

“ It was not a just will, ’’answered the widow. 

“ I told your father so when he placed it in my 
hands, although I did not tell him that never in 
all my life should I avail myself of his munifi- 
cence. ” 

“He had wronged your father in some man- 
ner which we can not guess at, but which he 
owned himself. You told me that,” said Reu- 
ben. 

“He was strange that day. It might have 
been the raving of a madman.” 

“As that,” said Lucy, pointing to the fire, 

“ was the act of a madwoman.” 

“I think not,” answered Mary, confidently. 

“ It is an act of justice to the man entitled to his 
father’s money, and who will marry this brave 
young lady in possession.” 

“ She has given me up,” said Reuben, dryly. 

But Mary turned from one to another, and read 
no doubt or distress on either face. Here were 
two lives in the sunshine at last. 

“ I believe it was always Simon Cul wick’s wish 
that Reuben should have this money,” continued 
Mary ; “ he did not know of my marriage, and 1 
dared not tell him for my home’s sake, and so 
we went on from one complication to another. 
There were only two wills,” said Mary; “the 
first left all to his sister, the second to me — and 
the second I could not, and I did not care to, 
prove. The answer to the riddle came round in 
the way I thought it might do, if I were watchful 
and reserved ; for I knew in what high estima- 
tion Sarah Eastbell held her cousin, and how 
she had made up her mind — quite made it up — 
to give an obstinate man his rights. She and I 
together planned more ways than one — she very 
artless, I very artful perhaps — but the best and 
simplest and happiest way has come without out- 
plotting.” 

“But you?” said Sarah and Reuben together. 

“You two are not likely to forget me, or my 
little daughter here — to shut me from vour friend- 
ship — but will help me in the world, should I 
want help.” 

“Help!” echoed Reuben; “why, it is all 
yours.” 


148 


SECOND-COUSIN SARAH. 


“You can’t prove that,” said Mary, emphatic- 
ally; “and I would prefer to be dependent on 
your bounty. I will not be too proud to ask for 
a pension, when my little girl grows up and tires 
of her mother. ” 

“The future, for you and Tots, you will leave 
to Sarah and me,” said Reuben ; “you will trust 
in those whom you have trusted so much al- 
ready. ” 

“As they will trust in me now,” said the un- 
selfish woman, holding out her hands to them. 

It is a fair picture on which the curtain is rung 
down, on perfect confidence and true affection 
and prosperity, on life opening out before these 
three with no shadows on the scenes beyond. 
Reuben and Sarah will live happily forever after- 
ward — as young couples always should in books — 
and Mary and her daughter will be their faithful 
friends and loving companions to the end of life. 

In the red glow of the sunset of our story 
stands poor Lucy Jennings, grave and stony as 
the Libyan Sphinx, commenting but little upon 
the happiness about her, and yet feeling that it 
reaches to her heart, and makes her more like 
other women. She does not own this, but, as 


years steal on, she will become wiser and kind- 
er and more considerate — be not above the van- 
ity of a visit to Sedge Hill, and work as hard and 
as successfully to reform her brother John as she 
has done in old days to reform the mysterious 
lives of society’s offshoots. She will have given 
up preaching under railway arches then, and be 
a white-haired woman, whom Reuben will be 
kind and courteous to, and Reuben’s children 
will love, although they will run away and hide 
when she preaches too long sermons to them — a 
weakness that will never wholly leave her, even 
when asthma turns up. 

Reuben’s brother-in-law, one Thomas Eastbell, 
will not visit Worcestershire again, and Reuben’s 
wife will not learn for years of his disappearance 
in the Australian bush, where we can afford to 
let the last of our villains hide himself. 

In the bright early morning, gazing from the 
window of her room at the fair landscape beyond, 
with the silvery laughter of little children ring- 
ing upward from the lawn, and with her hus- 
band’s arm linked within her own, Second-cousin 
Sarah will talk no longer of Sedge Hill being an 
unlucky house. 


THE END. 


0t N c^tT«rX e Sed A lr P ] e „7^ S hym l rary IF”^ 168 l0ve “« ™»«i a vast number 

wen as y° un g bo,, and awee't girls, U the. 


HAEPER’S library 

OB 1 

SELECT NOVELS. 

£3s^j§iji^s^s3ss 


1. 

2 # 

3! 

4. 


8 . 

9. 

10 . 

11 . 


Pelham. By Buhver $ 75 

Phe Disowned. By Bulwer 75 

Devereux. By Bulwer 50 

Paul Clifford. By Bulwer 50 

Eugene Aram. By Bulwer 50 

6. The Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer 50 

7. The Czarina. By Mrs. Hofland 50 

Rienzi. By Bulwer 75 

Self-Devotion. By Miss Campbell 50 

The Nabob at Home 50 

Ernest Maltravers. By Bulwer 50 

12. Alice ; or, The Mysteries. By Bulwer 50 

13. The Last of the Barons. By Bulwer.. 1 00 

14. Forest Days. By James 50 

15. Adam Brown, the Merchant. By H. 

Smith 1 50 

16. Pilgrims of the Rhine. By Bulwer.... 25 

1 7. The Home. By Miss Bremer 50 

18. The Lost Ship. By Captain Neale 75 

19. The False Heir. By James 50 

20. The Neighbors. By Miss Bremer 50 

21. Kina. By Miss Bremer 50 

22. The President’s Daughters. By Miss 

Bremer 25 

23. The Banker’s Wife. By Mrs. Gore. ... 50 

21. The Birthright. By Mrs. Gore 25 

25. New Sketches of Every-day Life. By 

Miss Bremer 50 

Arabella Stuart. By James 50 

The Grumbler. By Miss Pickering. ... 50 

The Unloved One. By Mrs. Hofland. 50 
Jack of the Mill. By William Howitt. 25 

The Heretic. By Lajetchnikoff. 50 

The Jew. By Spindler 75 

Arthur. By Sue 75 

Chatsworth. By Ward 50 

The Prairie Bird. By C. A. Murray. 1 00 

35. Amy Herbert. By Miss Sewell 50 

36. Rose d’Albret. By James 50 

37. The Triumphs of Time. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

38. The H Family. By Miss Bremer 

The Grandfather. By Miss Pickering. 


26. 

27. 

28. 

29. 

30. 

31. 

32. 

33. 

34. 


50 

50 


Arrah Neil. By James 50 

The Jilt 50 

Tales from the German 50 


39. 

40. 

41. 

42. 

43. Arthur Arundel. ByH. Smith 50 

44. Agincourt. By James 50 

45. The Regent’s Daughter 50 

46. The Maid of Honor 50 

47. Safia. By De Beauvoir 50 

48. Look to the End. By Mrs. Ellis. 50 

49. The Improvisatore. By Andersen 50 

50. The Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs. Grey.. 50 

51. Veronica. By Zschokke 50 

52. Zoe. By Miss Jewsbury 50 | 105. 


53 

54. 

55. 

56. 

57. 

58. 

59. 

60. 
61. 
62. 

63. 

64. 

65. 

66 . 

67. 

68 . 

69. 

70. 

71. 

72. 

73. 

74 . 

76. 

77. 

78. 

79. 

80. 
81. 
82. 

83. 

84. 

85. 

86 . 

87. 

88 . 

89. 

90. 

91. 

92. 

93. 

95. 

96. 

97. 

98. 

99. 

00 . 

101 . 

102 . 

103. 

104. 


ITT • PRICE 

• Wyoming $ 50 

. De Rohan. By Sue 50 

Self. By the Author of “ Cecil ” 75 

The Smuggler. By James. 75 

The Breach of Promise 50 

Parsonage of Mora. By Miss Bremer 25 
A Chance Medley. By T. C. Grattan 50 

The White Slave 1 00 

The Bosom Friend. By Mrs. Grey.. 50 

Amaury. By Dumas 50 

The Author’s Daughter. By Mary 

Howitt 25 

Only a Fiddler ! &c. By Andersen 50 

The Whiteboy. By Mrs. Hall 50 

The Foster-Brother. Edited by Leigh 

Hunt ‘ 50 

Love and Mesmerism. By H. Smith. 75 

Ascanio. By Dumas 75 

Lady of Milan. Edited by Mrs. 

Thomson 75 

The Citizen of Prague... l 00 

The Royal Favorite. By Mrs. Gore. 50 
The Queen of Denmark. By Mrs. Gore 50 

The Elves, &c. ByTieck... 50 

75. The Step-Mother. By James 1 25 

Jessie’s Flirtations 50 

Chevalier d’Harmental. By Dumas. 50 
Peers and Parvenus. By Mrs. Gore. 50 
The Commander of Malta. By Sue.. 50 

The Female Minister 50 

Emilia Wyndham. By Mrs. Marsh. 75 
The Bush-Ranger. By Charles Row- 

croft,. 50 

The Chronicles of Clovernook 25 

Genevieve. By Lamartine 25 

Livonian Tales 25 

Lettice Arnold. By Mrs. Marsh 25 

Father Darcy. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

Leontine. By Mrs. Maberly 50 

Heidelberg. "By James 50 

Lucretia. By Bulwer 75 

Beauchamp. By James 75 

94. Fortescue. By Knowles 1 00 

Daniel Dennison, &c. By Mrs. Hofland 50 

Cinq-Mars. By De Vigny 50 

Woman’s Trials. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 75 
The Castle of Ehrenstein. By James 50 

Marriage. By Miss S. Ferrier 50 

Roland Cashel. By Lever 1 25 

Martins of Cro’ Martin. By Lever... 1 25 

Russell. By James 50 

A Simple Story. By Mrs. Inchbald.. 50 
Norman’s Bridge. By Mrs. Marsh... 50 

Alamance 50 

Margaret Graham. By James 25 


2 


Harper’s Library of Select Novels. 


trice 

106. The Wayside Cross. By E. H. Mil- 

man $ 25 

107. The Convict. By James 50 

108. Midsummer Eve. By Mrs. S. C. Hall 50 

109. Jane Eyre. By Currer Bell 75 

110. The Last of the Eairies. By James.. 25 

111. Sir Theodore Broughton. Bv James 50 

112. Self-Control. By Mary Brunton 75 

113. 114. Harold. By Bulwer 1 00 

115. Brothers and Sisters. By Miss Bremer 50 

116. Gowrie. By James 50 

117. A Whim and its Consequences. By 

James 50 

118. Three Sisters and Three Eortunes. 

By G. H. Lewes 75 

119. The Discipline of Life 50 

120. Thirty Years Since. By James 75 

121. Mary Barton. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 

122. The Great Hoggarty Diamond. By 

Thackeray 25 

123. The Forgery. By James 50 

124. The Midnight Sun. By Miss Bremer 25 

125,126. The Caxtons. By Bulwer 75 

127. Mordaunt Hall. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

128. My Uncle the Curate 50 

129. The Woodman. By James 75 

130. The Green Hand. A “ Short Yarn ” 75 

131. Sidonia the Sorceress. By Meinhold 1 00 

132. Shirley. By Currer Bell 1 00 

1 33. The Ogilvies 50 

134. Constance Lyndsay. By G. C. H 50 

135. Sir Edward Graham. By Miss Sin- 

clair 1 00 

136. Hands not Hearts. By Miss Wilkin- 

son 50 

137. The Wilmingtons. By Mrs. Marsh.. 50 

138. Ned Allen. By D. Hannay 50 

139. Night and Morning. By Bulwer 75 

140. The Maid of Orleans 75 

141. Antonina. By Wilkie Collins 50 

142. Zanoni. By Bulwer 50 

143. Reginald Hastings. By Warburton.. 50 

144. Bride and Irresolution 50 

145. The Old Oak Chest. By James 50 

146. Julia Howard. By Mrs. Martin Bell. 50 

147. Adelaide Lindsay. Edited by Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

148. Petticoat Government. By Mrs. Trol- 

lope 50 

149. The Luttrells. By F. Williams ^50 

150. Singleton Fontenoy, R. N. By Hannay 50 

151. Olive. By the Author of “The Ogil- 

vies” 50 

152. Henry Smeaton. By James 50 

153. Time, the Avenger. By Mrs. Marsh. 50 

154. The Commissioner. By James 1 00 

155. The Wife’s Sister. By Mrs. Hubback 50 

156. The Gold Worshipers 50 

157. The Daughter of Night. By Fullom. 50 

158. Stuart of Dunleath. By Hon. Caro- 

line Norton 50 

159. Arthur Conway. By Captain E. H. 

Milman 50 

160. The Fate. By James 50 

161. The Lady and the Priest. By Mrs. 

Maberly 50 

162. Aims and Obstacles. By James 50 

163. The Tutor’s Ward 50 

164. Florence Sackville. By Mrs. Burbury 75 

165. Ravenscliffe. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

166. Maurice Tiernay. By Lever 1 00 


PRICE 

167. The Head of the Family. By Miss 

Mulock $ 75 

168. Darien. By Warburton 50 

169. Falkenburg 75 

170. The Daltons. By Lever 1 50 

171. Ivar; or, The Skjuts-Boy. By Miss 

Carlen 50 

172. Pequinillo. By James 50 

173. Anna Hammer. ByTemme 50 

174. A Life of Vicissitudes. By James... 50 

175. Henry Esmond. By Thackeray 50 

176. 177. My Novel. By Bulwer 1 50 

178. Katie Stewart 25 

179. Castle Avon. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

180. Agnes Sorel. By James 50 

181. Agatha’s Husband. By the Author of 

“Olive” 50 

182. Villette. By Currer Bell 75 

183. Lover’s Stratagem. By Miss Carlen. 50 

184. Clouded Happiness. By Countess 

D’Orsay 50 

185. Charles Auchester. A Memorial 75 

186. Lady Lee’s Widowhood 50 

187. Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever... .1 25 

188. Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever 75 

189. Quiet Heart 25 

190. Aubrey. By Mrs. Marsh 75 

191. Ticonderoga. By James 50 

192. Hard Times. By Dickens 50 

193. The Young Husband. By Mrs. Grey 50 

194. The Mother’s Recompense. By Grace 

Aguilar 75 

195. Avillion, &c. By Miss Mulock 1 25 

196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell. 50 

197. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Du- 

puy 50 

198. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jews- 

burv 50 

199. The "Heiress of Haughton. By Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

200. The Old Dominion. By James 50 

201. John Halifax. By the Author of 

“Olive,” &c 75 

202. Evelyn Marston. By Mrs. Marsh.... 50 

203. Fortunes of Glencore. By Lever 50 

204. Leonora d'Orco. By James 50 

205. Nothing New. By Miss Mulock 50 

206. The Rose of Ashurst. By Mrs. Marsh 50 

207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 

208. Scenes of Clerical Life 75 

209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell. 25 

210. 211. Gerald Fitzgerald. By Lever... 50 

212. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock.. 50 

213. Sword and Gown. By Geo. Lawrence 25 

214. Misrepresentation. By Anna H. 

Drury 1 00 

215. The Mill on the Floss. By George 

Eliot 75 

216. One of Them. By Lever 75 

217. A Day’s Ride. By Lever 50 

218. Notice to Quit. By Wills 50 

219. A Strange Story 1 00 

220. Brown, Jones, and Robinson. By 

Trollope *. 50 

221. Abel Drake’s Wife. By John Saun- 

ders 75 

222. Olive Blake’s Good Work. By J. C. 

Jeaffreson 75 

223. The Professor’s Lady 25 

224. Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock 50 

225. Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon .. 75 


Harper’s Library of Select Novels. 


226. Barrington. By Lever $*75 

227. Sylvias Lovers. By Mrs. Gaskell. ... 75 

228. A First Friendship ... 50 

229. A Dark Night’s Work. By Mrs. 

Gaskell ' 50 

230. Countess Gisella. By E. Marlitt 25 

231. St. Olave’s 75 

232. A Point of Honor 50 

233. Live it Down. BvJeaffreson 1 00 

234. Martin Pole. By Saunders 50 

235. Mary Lyndsay. By Lady Ponsonby. 50 

236. Eleanor’s Victory. By M. E. Braddon 75 

237. Rachel Ray. By Trollope 50 

238. John Marchmont’s Legacy. By M. 

E. Braddon * 75 

239. Annie Warleigh’s Fortunes. Bv 

Holme Lee 75 

240. The Wife’s Evidence. By Wills 50 

241. Barbara’s History. By Amelia B. 

Edwards .... 75 

242. Cousin Phillis 25 

243. What Will He Do With It? Bv Bul- 

wer 1 50 

244. The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. 

Edwards 50 

245. Denis Duval. By Thackeray 50 

246. Maurice Dering. * By Geo. Lawrence 50 

247. Margaret Denzil’s History 75 

248. Quite Alone. By George Augustus 

Sala 75 

249. Mattie: a Stray 75 

250. My Brother’s Wife. By Amelia B. 

Edwards 50 

251. Uncle Silas. ByJ. S. Le Fanu 75 

252. Lovel the Widower. By Thackeray.. 25 

253. Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trol- 

lope “. 50 

254. On Guard. By Annie Thomas 50 

255. Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 50 

256. Denis Doone. By Annie Thomas.... 50 

257. Belial 50 

258. Carry’s Confession 75 

259. Miss Carew. By Amelia B. Ed- 

wards 50 

260. Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Ed- 

wards 50 

261. Guy Deverell. ByJ. S. Le Fanu 50 

262. Half a Million of Money. By Amelia 

B. Edwards 75 

263. The Belton Estate. By Anthony 

Trollope 50 

264. Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 

265. Walter Goring. By Annie Thomas.. 75 

266. Maxwell Drewitt. By Mrs. J. H. 

Riddell 75 


267. The Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo 75 

268. Miss Marjoribanks. By Mrs. Olip- 

hant 50 

269. True History of a Little Ragamuffin. 

By James Greenwood 50 

270. Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of “A 

First Friendship” 1 00 

271. Sans Merci. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

272. Phemie Keller. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 50 

273. Land at Last. By Edmund Yates. ... 50 

274. Felix Holt, the Radical. By George 

Eliot 75 

275. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saun- 

ders 75 

276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu. 50 

277. Kissing the Rod. By Edmund Yates 75 


PEIOK 

278. The Race for Wealth. By Mrs. J. H. 


Riddell $ 75 

279. Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg. By Mrs. 

Linton 75 

280. The Beauclercs, Father and Son. By 

C. Clarke 50 

281. Sir Brook Fossbrooke. By Charles 

Lever 50 

282. Madonna Mary. By Mrs. Oliphant . 50 

283. Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Black- 

more 75 

284. Bernthal. From the German of L. 

Muhlbach 50 

285. Rachel’s Secret 75 

286. The Claverings. By Anthony Trol- 

lope 50 

287. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss 

Thackeray 25 

288. Played Out. By Annie Thomas 75 

289. Black Sheep. By Edmund Yates 50 

290. Sowing the Wind. By E. Lynn 

Linton 50 

291. Nora and Archibald Lee 50 

292. Raymond’s Heroine 50 

293. Mr. Wynyard’s Ward. By Holme 

Lee 50 

294. Alec Forbes. By George Macdonald 75 

295. No Man’s Friend. ByF. W. Robin- 

son 75 

296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 50 

297. Caste 50 

298. The Curate’s Discipline. By Mrs. 

Eiloart 50 

299. Circe. By Babington White 50 

300. The Tenants of Malory. By J. S. Le 

Fanu 50 

301. Carlvon’s Year. By James Payn 25 

302. The Waterdale Neighbors 50 

303. Mabel’s Progress 50 

304. Guild Court. By Geo. Macdonald... 50 

305. The Brothers’ Bet. By Miss Carlen. 25 

306. Playing for High Stakes. By Annie 

Thomas. Illustrated., 25 

307. Margaret’s Engagement 50 

308. One of the Family. By James Payn. 25 

309. Five Hundred Pounds Reward. By 

a Barrister 50 

310. Brownlows. By Mrs. Oliphant 38 

311. Charlotte’s Inheritance. Sequel to 

“Birds of Prey.” By Miss Braddon 50 

312. Jeanie’s Quiet Life. By the Author 

of “St. Olave’s” 50 


313. Poor Humanity. ByF. W. Robinson 50 

314. Brakespeare. By Geo. Lawrence 50 

315. A Lost Name. By J. S. Le Fanu.... 50 

316. Love or Marriage ? By W. Black.... 50 

317. Dead - Sea Fruit. By Miss Braddon. 


Illustrated 50 

318. The Dower House. By Annie Thomas 50 

319. The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly. By 

Lever * 50 

320. Mildred. By Georgiana M. Craik. . . . 50 

321. Nature’s Nobleman. By tne Author 

of “ Rachel’s Secret ” 50 

322. Kathleen. By the Author of “Ray- 

mond’s Heroine” 50 

323. That Boy of Norcott’s. By Charles 

Lever 25 

324. In Silk Attire. By W. Black 50 

325. Hetty. By Henry Kingsley 25 

326. False Colors. By Annie Thomas 50 


4 


Harper's Library of Select Novels. 


PKIOE 


327. Meta’s Faith. By the Author of “ St. 

Olave’s” $ 50 

328. Found Dead. By James Payn 50 

329. Wrecked in Port. By Edmund Yates 50 

330. The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 75 

331. A Beggar on Horseback. By James 

Payn 35 

332. Kitty. By M. Betham Edwards 50 

333. Only Herself. By Annie Thomas .... 50 

334. Hirell. By John Saunders... 50 

335. Under Foot. By Alton Clyde 50 

336. So Runs the World Away. By Mrs. 

A. C. Steele 50 

337. Baffled. By Julia Goddard 75 

338. Beneath the Wheels 50 

339. Stern Necessity. By F. W. Robinson 50 

340. Gwendoline’s Harvest. By James 

Payn 25 

341. Kilmeny. By William Black 50 

342. John: A Love Story. By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 50 

343. True to Herself. By F. W. Robinson 50 

344. Veronica. By the Author of “Ma- 

bel’s Progress ” 50 

345. A Dangerous Guest. By the Author 

of “Gilbert Rugge ” 50 

346. Estelle Russell 75 

347. The Heir Expectant. By the Author 

of “Raymond’s Heroine” 50 

348. Which is the Heroine ? 50 

349. The Vivian Romance. By Mortimer 

Collins 50 

350. In Duty Bound. Illustrated 50 

351. The Warden and Barchester Towers. 

By A. Trollope 75 

352. From Thistles — Grapes? By Mrs. 

Eiloart 50 

353. A Siren. By T. A. Trollope 50 

354. Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite. 

By Anthony Trollope. Illustrated... 50 

355. Earl’s Dene. By R. E. Francillon.... 50 

356. Daisy Nichol. By Lady Hardy 50 

357. Bred in the Bone. By James Payn.. 50 

358. Fenton’s Quest. By Miss Braddon. 

Illustrated 50 

359. Monarch of Mincing - Lane. ByW. 

Black. Illustrated 50 

360. A Life’s Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Rid- 

dell . v . 50 

361. Anteros. By the Author of “Guy 

Livingstone ” 50 

362. Her Lord and Master. By Mrs. Ross 

Church 50 

363. Won — Not Wooed. By James Payn 50 

364. For Lack of Gold. By Clias. Gibbon 50 

365. Anne Furness 75 

366. A Daughter of Heth. ByW. Black. 50 

367. Durnton Abbey. By T. A. Trollope. 50 

368. Joshua Marvel. By B. L. Farjeon... 40 

369. Lovels of Arden. By M. E. Braddon. 

Illustrated 75 

370. Fair to See. ByL. W. M. Lockhart. 75 


PEIOB 


371. Cecil's Tryst. By James Payn $50 

372. Patty. By Katharine S. Macquoid... 50 

373. Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas ... 25 

374. Grif. By B. L. Farjeon 40 

375. A Bridge of Glass. By F. W. Robin- 

son 50 

376. Albert Lunel. By Lord Brougham.. 75 

377. A Good Investment. By William 

Flagg 50 

378. A Golden Sorrow. By Mrs. Cashel 

Hoey 50 

379. Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 

380. Hope Deferred. By Eliza F. Pollard 50 

381. The Maid of Sker. By R. D. Black- 

more ... 75 

382. For the King. By Charles Gibbon... 50 

383. A Girl’s Romance, and Other Tales. 

By F. W. Robinson 50 

384. Dr. Wainwright’s Patient. By Ed- 

mund Yates 50 

385. A Passion in Tatters. By Annie 

Thomas 75 

386. A Woman’s Vengeance. By James 

Payn * 50 

387. The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

By William Black 75 

388. To the Bitter End. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 75 

389. Robin Gray. By Charles Gibbon 50 

390. Godolphin. By Bulwer 50 

391. Leila. By Bulwer 50 

392. Kenelm Chillingly. By Lord Lytton. 75 

393. The Hour and the Man. By Harriet 

Martineau 50 

394. Murphy’s Master. By James Payn... 25 

395. The New Magdalen. * By Wilkie Col- 

lins 50 

396. “ ‘He Cometh Not,’ She Said.” By 

Annie Thomas 50 


397. Innocent. By Mrs. Oliphant. Illus- 

trated 

398. Too Soon. By Mrs. Macquoid.. 

399. Strangers and Pilgrims. By Miss 

Braddon 

400. A Simpleton. By Charles Reade 

401. The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas 

402. Joseph the Jew 

403. Her Face was Her Fortune. By F. 

W. Robinson 

404. A Princess of Thule. By W. Black. 

405. Lottie Darling. By J. C. Jeaffreson. 

406. The Blue Ribbon. By the Author of 

“St. Olave’s” 

407. Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By An- 

thony Trollope 

408. Publicans and Sinners. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 

409. Colonel Dacre. By the Author of 

“ Caste ” 

410. Through Fire and Water. By Fred- 

erick Talbot 

411. Lady Anna. By Anthony Troi- 

lope 


75 

50 

75 

50 

50 

50 


50 

75 

75 

50 

25 

75 

50 

25 

50 


Harper & Brothers will send their works by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the 
United States, on receipt of the price. 





may book-list. 


-•-£5 '• •» « 

ISP* H..P„' S Catalo gue W Hakpbk's Tba de -L,st nm fe ^ ^ o/ su c „„. 


Motley’s Life and Death of John of Barneveld. 

T ,i fp 3nr1 T 1 _ r , 


a vi - ° f •»* 

“inS^r^vT 1 ■ 4“?; : 

Republic ” and “ United NetSa”^--) ’ ’ ® 7 °°' (Umf ° rm With M ° t,e >'’ s “ Dutch 


The greatest men are not always those whom the 
world considers such. To the world, which judges 
only by what it sees, the greatest are the most success- 
fuh History is a stage where he who is most applaud- 
ed is the best actor. That many of the players, gen- 
erally the royal ones, are puppets, the spectators do 
not perceive. The wires by which they are moved are 
m unseen hands; the parts which they perform are 
prepared by unknown brains. Kings flatter them- 
selves that it is they who govern their subjects, and 
famous captains that it is they who win battles* but 
they are mistaken. It is the favorite whom the king 

Tiie Christian Pastor, By Dr. Tyng. 

The Office and Duty of a Christian Pastor. By Stephen H. Tyng, D D Rector of St 


takes to his arms, the priest to whom he confesses his 
secrets, the statesman who forwards, as he fancies his 
i oyal intentions. These are the real rulers of mankind 
and their influence is still unshaken. It was para- 
mount in the Europe of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries, the Europe of Philip the Second, Henry the 
Fourth, Elizabeth and James, and— John of Barne- 
veld. Spain had its Duke of Lerma, France its Sully 
England its Cecil and Walsingham, and the Nether- 
lands their John of Barneveld. If he was not the 
greatest man of his time, no man was greater, though 
one was more fortunate because more unscrupulous/’ 


Evangelical Alliance Conference, 1873. 


History Essays, Orations, and Other Documents of the Sixth General Conference of the 
vangehcal Alhance, held m New York, October 2-12, 1873. Edited by Rev. Philip Schaff, 
D.D and Rev. S Irenes Prime, D.D. With Portraits of Rev. Messrs. Pronier Carrasco 

Calf, /sta" 60611 7 ^ 8V °* 8 °° pageS ’ $6 °° ; Sheep ’ ^’00; Half> 


About one hundred men, from various parts of the 
world, eminent for learning, ability, and worth, hold- 
ing high rank in theology, philosophy, science, and 
literature, men of genius, power, and fame, were care- 
fully selected, and invited to prepare themselves, by 
months and 3 r ears of study, for the discussion of themes 
of immediate and vital importance. They were chos- 
en, as the men of thought and purpose best fitted to 
produce Treatises which should exhibit, in the most 
thorough and exhaustive form, the Truth, as sustained 
by the Holy Scripture and the most advanced and en- 
lightened human reason. The results of this concen- 
trated thought and labor are embodied in this volume. 

Rarely has a volume issued from the press which 


contained a more varied and extensive array of talent 
and experience. 

The vital topics of Evangelical Theology, the delicate 
relations of Science and Religion, the difficult subjects 
of practical Benevolence, Philanthropy, and Reform 
are here discussed by clear, sound, and experienced 
minds. Pulpit orators, of renown and recognized po- 
sition, have contributed to this volume their best pro- 
ductions. 

It is, in short, a library of Christian thought and 
learning the latest expression of master-minds upon 
the important topics that are now moving the Chris- 
tian world — and should be read by all who would be 
educated in the thought of the age. 


Harper 6 ° Brothers' List of New Books. 


Victor Hugo’s Ninety-Three. 

Ninety-Three. A Novel. By Victor Hugo, Author of “ Toilers of the Sea,” “Les Misera- 
bles,” &c. Translated by Frank Lee Benedict. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents ; i2mo, Cloth, $1 75. 


* * * It will easily be seen that this is no idle romance, 
no web of fancy woven for a day’s delight. Its purpose 
is high and patent, and it is served by deep and novel 
researches into the history of the Revolution and the 
chronicles of the Vendee— apart from the artistic force 
and fervor that M. Hugo seems to have at command as 
ready and perfect as when “Hernaui” was produced. 
It is the last brief penned in defense of weakness, hu- 
mility, and obscurity: the chain that began at the 
“ Roi s’ Amuse ” may close worthily at “Ninety-Three.” 
— Academy , London. 

The types in “Ninety-Three” are many and grand. 
They remind us of Jean Valjean, of Eujolras, of that 
legion of august and legendary characters which he 
has created. Gauvain is the stanch, ardent Republi- 
can of the Danton cast, seeking in clemency and union, 
rather than in repression and inflexibility, the means 
of marshaling Republican France under one banner. 
Lantenac is a magnificent embodiment of the last Bret- 
ons. Cimourdain is the true incarnation in Revolution 
of what Lantenac is in Royalism. Sergeant Radoub 
gives a capital idea of the dare-devil Parisians of the 
revolutionary time — rough, good-natured, and brave 
to foolhardiness— who made head against the coales- 
cent armies of Europe. — Athenaeum , London. 

We must bow low before this old man who, in the 
autumn of his life, looks down over the great death- 
fields of history, and tries to expound the lesson 
which rises from amid the graves. He gives the 
preference to those who have fallen struggling and 
whose memory is unjustly sullied. It is because he 
does not think that there can be such formidable hec- 
atombs of men without a social reason. He was full 


of that thought when, after the defeat of May, 1871, he 
vouchsafed his protection to the fugitives. This deep 
thought predominates in his work, and it is consoling 
to see it expounded by a man of his greatness.— Ex- 
aminer, London. 

Beautiful sayings, true and noble thoughts, inex- 
pressibly tender sentiments, are just as abundant. 
We need not refer to them ; they will be discovered 
and made much of, as they deserve to be. This work 
of a poet seventy-two years old is written with no 
abatement of the vigor of his manhood : it is full of in- 
vention, artistic cunning, and a wafting wind that is 
not to be resisted. Hugo has but to lay his finger on 
children to make them adorable, and such a voyage 
autour de la chambre as the three little ones perform 
in the library of the tower of the Tourgue, when the 
storming of the chateau is in preparation and the 
shadow of a terrible destiny hangs over them, could 
only have been imagined by this poet of children and 
powerful disposer of extreme and vivid contrasts. 
Little Georgette, waking, and looking at her feet as 
she sits up in bed, holding her forefinger upright and 
whispering “Musique” (music) at the sound of the 
bugle summoning the garrison to surrender, and rous- 
ed by the first roar of the besieging cannon to raise 
her forefinger again, and breathe “Poum” as she lies 
down tired to resume her sleep, is among the sweetest 
of Hugo’s creations in the infant world. To conclude, 
“Ninety-Three” is a representation of the civil war 
in La Vendee, performed by a company of types that 
are superbly inflated by the breath of an eminent and 
humane poet, whose prose has the quality of song. — 
Pall Mall Budget, London. 


Lady Anna. 

Lady Anna. A Novel. By Anthony Trollope, Author of “ The Warden,” “ Barchester 
Towers,” “ Phineas Finn,” “ Phineas Redux,” “ Dr. Thorne,” &c., & c. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 


Annual Record of Science and Industry for 1873, 

Annual Record of Science and Industry. Prepared by Prof. Spencer F. Baird, Assistant- 
Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. With the Assistance of some of the most Emi- 
nent Men of Science in the United States. Large i2mo, over 800 pages, Cloth, $2 00. 
(Uniform with the Annual Records for 1871 and 1872.) 

The three Volumes sent by mail, postage prepaid, on receipt of Five Dollars. 


The merits of this Annual are becoming very gener- 
ally appreciated, and it has met with great favor in 
Europe, where such journals as the Athenaeum, The 
Academy , Nature, The Quarterly Journal of Science, 
Mechanics' Magazine, etc., place it at the head of works 
intended to give a satisfactory account of the prog- 
ress of science in all its branches. 

Unlike most other works having the same object, 
it is not a mere compilation of extracts from pub- 
lished journals. In every instance the matter pre- 
sented has been thoroughly digested and re-written 
by an expert, generally with additions from other 
sources, and often including results of original re- 
search on his own part; the authority whence it has 
been derived or suggested being always indicated. A 
list of the journals most frequently used is given at 
the end of the volume; but, besides these (nearly one 
hundred in number), a much larger series, in the un- 
rivaled library of the Smithsonian Institution, has been 
at the command of the author and his assistants. 

The volume is prefaced by a Summary of Progress 
during the year, arranged under different heads, each 
department being prepared by some eminent special- 
ist. In this Summary reference is made not only to 


the articles actually presented in the volume, but to 
such others as are necessary to give a connected idea 
of the principal topics. 

A work entitled The Annual of Scientific Discovery 
was discontinued when this Annual Record was com- 
menced. The Record, therefore, although entirely 
independent of its predecessors, in reality forms a 
continuation ; so that those who already possess the 
Annual of Scientific Discovery will do well to secure 
the present series. 

A special feature of the present Annual is its Bi- 
ographical Record, alphabetically arranged, of the 
men of science who have died during the year, at 
home and abroad. 

The value of the work is greatly increased, as a 
book of reference, by a thorough systematic table of 
contents, to which specialists can conveniently refer 
for information as to any subject of study. 

In addition to this, an exhaustive alphabetical in- 
dex furnishes the means of ready reference to names 
and topics. 

The volume for 1873 is much larger than either of 
its predecessors, occupying over 800 pages, of which 
114 are devoted to the Summary. 


Harper dr* Brothers' List of Nnv Books. 


Vincent's Land of the White Elephant. 




A not unwelcome addition to our knowledge of the 
Indo-Chinese peninsulas. It is written in a clear and 
unaffected style. It is descriptive of forests, lakes, 
rivers, capitals, and ruins. It shows the author to be 
possessed of some of the qualities indispensable to 
successful exploration— energy, endurance of heat, 
fatigue, and petty annoyances, good-humor, quickness 
of observation, and intelligence. Its value is enhanced 
by two or three maps throwing light on some disputed 
points of geography, as well as by many excellent en- 
gravings, which place before us the pagodas with their 
wonderful tracery and the reigning monarchs in their 
robes of state . — Saturday Review , London. 

The work presents us with a personal narrative of 
travel and adventure in Farther India, embracing the 
countries of Burma, Siam, Cambodia, and Cochin- 
China. Mr. Vincent is an American gentleman, and 
his travels took place in the years 1871 - 2 , so that his 
volume has the great advantage of reflecting the actu- 
al existing state of these lauds . — Daily News, London. 

This is in many respects a model book of travel. 
For once a traveler eschews any thing like book- 
making, and, although Mr. Vincent visited India and 
China, Ceylon and Japan, he limits his narrative to 
lands that are far less familiar to us. The route he 
describes in his volume led him up the Irrawaddy to 
independent Burma; thence, returning to Rangoon, 
he made the circuit of the Malay Peninsula, and, after 
a visit to the kingdom of Siam, made his way through 
Cambodia to the French settlements in Cochin-China. 
The volume is profusely and excellently illustrated, 
and convenient maps add to its value. Mr. Vincent 
gives a plain but pleasant account of all that struck 
him as best worth noting. * * * In many ways the jour- 
ney was extremely interesting, and, what is more to 
our present purpose, it was a journey extremely inter- 
esting to read about. * * * The whole of his book is 
worth reading, asgiving the latestobservations of an in- 
telligent traveler over countries that are rapidly chang- 
ing their characteristics — Pall Mall Gazette , London. 

No former traveler or writer has seen and described 
these far-off lands so thoroughly and so intelligently. 
In fact, the pages are like revelations of a new and 
marvelous world. The illustrations, which are very 
numerous and well executed, are as remarkable as the 
letter-press; for some of them show architectural 
structures, of a very remote antiquity, that are amaz- 
ing for magnitude and splendor. The “ Nagkon Wat ” 
is the most extraordinary of these structures, and it is 
the subject of many striking pictures and diagrams.— 
Evening Bulletin , Philadelphia. 

The book is very simply and cleverly written. It is 
a truthful narrative of a journey, very seldom made, 
through a most interesting and little known country. 
The illustrations are beautifully engraved ; they look 
almost like photographs. — Baron de Hujbner. 


“ The Land of the White Elephant,” by Mr. Vincent, 
is another instance of the superiority of your country- 
men over ours in the writing of books of travel, as a 
general rule. For directness, for saying what he has 
to say straight off, and beginning at the really interest- 
ing and important portion of his travels at once, in- 
stead of reiterating old descriptions which every one 
has read a score of times, Mr. Frank Vincent is almost 
unique and his book a model. It is rendered addition- 
ally interesting by the extraordinary changes which 
are taking place in Siam, that remote and wonderful 
land now making strides toward the adoption of West- 
ern civilization more energetic than those of the “Land 
of the Rising Sun ” itself . — London Correspondence of 
the N. Y. Herald. 

We are inclined to assign to this book a place of 
foremost interest among the travel books of the year. 
The architectural and sculptural plates alone add im- 
mensely to its value. — Examiner, London. 

Farther India is still more or less a sealed book to 
most of us, and one could not desire a more pleasant 
tutor in fresh geographical lore than our author. He 
won our heart at once by plunging in medias res, in- 
stead of devoting a chapter to the outward voyage ; 
and he tells us sensibly and intelligently, in a natiu-ai 

and unaffected style, what he saw and heard John 

Bull, London. 

It is a narrative of travel, undertaken by its author, 
an American gentlemen, to Farther India, and is full 
of valuable information, which is conveyed in a most 
attractive manner. The frankness and simplicity that 
distinguish the narrative throughout create an effect 
which leaves a very pleasant impression on the read- 
er’s mind. Mr. Vincent’s account embraces voyages to 
Burma, Siam, Cambodia, and Cochin -China^ and 
abounds to overflowing in hitherto unpublished facts 
regarding these places. Every thing is told in the 
most natural manner imaginable, and there is not a 
page that shows the slightest evidence of padding or 
cramming, for the mere sake of producing a bulky vol- 
ume. There is a highly picturesque account of the 
grand ruins to be found at Angkor, and a remarkably 
entertaining description of the palace at Bangkok. 
The author contrives to inspire his reader with the 
same interest and enthusiasm in hearing of these sights 
as he himself experienced in seeing them. There is 
here but little, if any, of that tiresome moralizing and 
reflection that make so many books of travel at once 
a labor and an exasperation to the reader. On the 
contrary, Mr. Vincent simply describes what he has 
seen In a frank and unaffected manner, and leaves one 
to draw his own deductions. He has written nothing 
that is not of special interest to his subject, and his 
intelligence as a writer is not inferior to his closeness 
as an observer. The book is profusely illustrated.— 
Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 


Lottie Darling. By John Cordy Jeaffreson. 

Lottie Darling. A Novel. By John Cordy Jeaffreson, Author of “ Isabel,” “ Not Dead 
Yet,” “ Live it Down,” “ Olive Blake’s Good Work,” &c. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 


“Lottie Darling” contains some delicious love pas- 
sages and original and striking sketches of character. 
The plot is one of powerful interest.— Graphic, London. 

A story of healthy tone, and readable throughout.— 
Examiner , London. 

In “Lottie Darling,” Mr. Jeaffreson has achieved a 
triumph. It is a capital novel, as sparkling as it is 


original, as powerful as it is amusing. It is healthy 
in tone, interesting from beginning to end, and con- 
tains sketches of life and character unusually vivid 
and well drawn.— Morning Post, London. 

This story is well told. It opens up a phase of life 
hitherto untouched by any novelist. —Daily News, 
London. 


4 


Harper &* Brothers' List of New Books. 


The Heart of Africa. By Schweinfurth. 


The Heart of Africa ; or, Three Years’ Travels and Adventures in the Unexplored Regions 
of the Centre of Africa. From 1868 to 1871. By Dr. Georg Schweinfurth. Trans- 
lated by Ellen E. Frewer. With an Introduction by Winwood Reade. Illustrated by 
about 130 Woodcuts from Drawings made by the Author, with Two Maps. 2 vols., 8vo. 
( In Press.) 


“Traveling, not in the footsteps of Sir Samuel 
Baker, but in a westerly direction, Dr. Schweinfurth 
reached the neighborhood of Baker’s Lake, and, pass- 
ing through the country of the Niam-Niam, he remain- 
ed for some months in the hitherto unknown kingdom 
of Monbuttoo. In a geographical sense, his book will 


contribute in an important degree to the solution of 
the Nile problem ; and ethnologically it will tend to 
set at rest the disputed question as to the existence 
of a dwarf race in Central Africa. Dr. Schweinfurth 
is an accomplished draughtsman, and his work is elab- 
orately illustrated from his own drawings." 


Pet. A Book for Children. 


Pet; or, Pastimes and Penalties. By H. R. 

50 Illustrations. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Prettily written and sure to interest children. The 
illustrations are very good. — Pall Mall Gazette , London. 

A charming little volume.— Daily News, London. 

“Pet,” the dearest little hercine who ever graced a 
story-book. — A thenceum, London. 

The hook is capitally illustrated.— Examiner, Lon- 
don. 

This is one of the nicest hooks ever published, as 
pretty as a pond-lily, and quite as fragrant. Nothing 
finer could be imagined than such a combination of 
fresh pages and fair pictures ; and while children will 
rejoice over it — which is much better than crying for it 
—it is a book that can be read with pleasure even by 
bald and bearded boys, and by girls who have become 
grandmothers.— Evening Traveller, Boston. 


Haweis, Author of “ Music and Morals.” With 

Evidently the work of a writer who is at heart a 
boy yet, and gains from this fact a freshness and 
truth. — Hour, London. 

A delightful story for children. — Scotsman. 

It is the relation of a series of incidents in the lives 
of four children, told with rare ease and naturalness 
of style, making a most interesting and agreeable 
child’s book. Each one of the little people in it has a 
distinct character, which is brought out by the differ- 
ent chapters of the story with a skill that can hardly 
fail to furnish genuine entertainment for the class of 
readers whom the book addresses. — Saturday Evening 
Gazette, Boston. 

It is a book to charm, to teach, and to set young 
folk thinking.— Philadelphia Press. 


The Blue Ribbon. 


The Blue Ribbon. A Novel. By the Author of “ St. Olave’s,” “Jeanie’s Quiet Life,” 
“ Meta’s Faith,” &c. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 


An admirable story. The character of the heroine 
is original and skillfully worked out, and an interest 
is cast around her which never flags. The sketches 
of society in a cathedral city are very vivid and amus- 
ing. — Morning Post, London. 

The very best work the author has yet given us. It 
is strong in its plot, which is admirably worked out, 
and careful in discrimination and portraiture of char- 


acter. It is one of the best novels of the season. — En- 
glish Independent, London. 

The reader will be both pleased and interested in 
this story. It abounds in picturesque, healthy dia- 
logue, touches of pathos and quiet good sense, which 
will surely make it popular.— Standard, London. 

An unquestionably interesting story. We like “ The 
Blue Kibbon” very much. — Spectator, London. 


Field's Memories of Many Men and of Some Women. 


Memories of Many Men and of Some Women: being Personal Recollections of Emperors, 
Kings, Queens, Princes, Presidents, Statesmen, Authors, and Artists, at Home and Abroad, 
during the last Thirty Years. By Maunsell B. Field. i2mo, Cloth, $2 00. 


Abounds in anecdotes, and the personal sketches of 
eminent characters are so cleverly drawn that we have 
the originals before us. — Philadelphia Press. 

He has written a pleasant volume of personal gossip, 
detailing in a frank, unpretending way a host of inter- 
esting anecdotes of all sorts of people. * * * A very 
entertaining volume. — N. Y. World. 

One of the most interesting books of the season. — 
St. Louis Dispatch. 


The book is very cleverly executed, and is enter- 
taining in no ordinary degree. * * * He has preserved 
plenty of anecdotes which embody much that is pithy 
and pungent about them.— Boston Saturday Evening 
Gazette. 

Possibly other Americans have had as good oppor- 
tunities and made as much of them as Mr. Field, but 
few have taken the trouble to publish theirs in a book. 
— Boston Daily Advertiser. 


Twelve Miles from a Lemon. By Gail Hamilton. 

Twelve Miles from a Lemon : Social and Domestic Sketches. By Gail Hamilton, Author 


of “Woman’s Worth and Worthlessness,” 
The title of this volume is explained by the familiar 
story of Sydney Smith, who described his living in 
Yorkshire as being so out of the way that it was actu- 
ally “twelve miles from a lemon,” and consequently a 
like distance from all the other elements of punch 
and civilization. Miss Dodge apparently lives at much 
the same distance from Boston, and regarding Boston 
and lemons as synonyms of civilization, she has writ- 


‘ Little Folk Life,” &c. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
ten a volume of sprightly little essays and sketches 
relating for the most part to the humors and infelici- 
ties of suburban life. In many respects it is the most 
entertaining of her numerous books. It is simply a 
volume of brilliant, witty, and audacious gossip, 
touching upon countless topics, and perpetually 
moving the reader to pleased or sardonic mirth.— 
World, N. Y. 


Harper 6 - Brothers 3 List of New Books . 


5 


Bulwer’s The Parisians. 


The Parisians A Novel. By Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton, Author of “The Coming 

w I’ in Jvenelm Chlllm gly. “A Strange Story,” “The Caxtons,” “ My Novel,” &c &c 
With Illustrations by Sydney Hall. i2mo, Cloth, $i 5 o ; 8vo, Paper, $i oo. 

It is one of the most characteristic and remarkable 
of its author’s works. The book is characteristic in 
the fact that we find in it some of the more obvious 
points that distinguish Bulwer purely as a novelist. 

There is the carefully conceived and elaborately in- 


volved, but always artistically arranged and develop- 
ed plot, in which this writer surpassed all his contem- 
poraries. There are characters, like Graham Vane 
and Victor de Mauleon, which so bear the stamp of his 
mind that one could hardly be misled into doubting 
their parentage. There are ripened fruits of that spirit 
of observation that long since passed out of its crude 
stage. Nearly the whole panorama of French life 
which it furnishes may be said to be of this stamp. 
The Marquis de Rochebriaut, Frederic Lemercier, 
Raoul and Enguerrand de Vandemar, Louvier, Sava- 
rin, Gustave Rameau, are all strong types of charac- 
ter, and together put France in her recent era more 
perfectly before the reader than she has ever been pre- 
sented by any writer with whom we are familiar, in 
any form. * * * The book is a credit both to the heart 
and the head of Bulwer in the declining years of his 
life, and is an admirable legacy of the ripest stage 
of his mind. The two posthumous productions of his 
pen, “ Kenelm Chillingly” and “The Parisians," are 
scarcely inferior in interest as novels to any thing he 
wrote, and in acuteness of observation, wisdom °and 
purity of reflection, and almost perfect polish ol‘ liter- 
ary style, they surpass all his previous works. The 
close of his career is crowned with its noblest offering. 
Few things in literature are finer than the description 
of the social condition of France which made her so 
easy a prey, in spite of the bravery and the pride of 
her people .— Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

* * * Every one who takes up the book is lured on 
from page to page by a fascination which never re- 
laxes its hold upon the mind. We follow, with in- 
creasing interest, the fortunes of the various charac- 
ters of the story, because we insensibly become inter- 


ested in them, as we do in living characters. At ev- 
ery step we feel the charm of the author’s style, of 
his incisive wit, of his keen, clear observation. The 
volume abounds in brilliant sayings, as well as pro- 
found ones. The author never allows himself or any 
of his characters to inflict dullness on the reader, and 
whether speaking in his own person or through an- 
other, avoids the fatal error of prosing. There are 
chapters and books in “The Parisians” on which the 
reader dwells with special pleasure, and to which ev- 
ery one will turn back with delight for a reperusal ; 
but there is none which he will feel inclined to skip 
i u r |he ry to get on with the story . — Boston Journal . 

The author has set before himself the task of paint- 
ing French society in Paris in the last days of the Sec- 
ond Empire, and he has accomplished this task, for- 
eigner as he was, with a skill which a born Frenchman 
might well envy. As an historical fiction, “ The Paris- 
ians ” stands higher than “ Rienzi ” or the “ Last Days 
of Pompeii.” It is a satire in the sense that it remorse- 
lessly depicts the follies and crimes of the imperialist 
regime, and is a far abler satire than the “New Ti- 
mon.” It is more brilliant in its epigrammatic wit than 
“Pelham,” and smoother in the flow of its narrative 
than “ Kenelm Chillingly.” * * * It will always be treat- 
ed by students of literature with the respect due to a 
brilliant and exceptionably able novel.— World, N. Y. 

* * * His aim was to portray, through the living me- 
dium of fiction, the social and political condition of 
France at the close of the Second Empire, and we haz- 
ard the statement that no future historian will give 
a more faithful or more graphic picture of the France 
and the Paris of ’09 and ’70 than is to be found in the 
pages of this novel. * * * The reader who takes it up 
will not willingly lay it down until the last page is 
reached, and he will rise from its perusal with the 
conviction that it is a work worthy of a place by the 
side of “The Caxtons” and “My Novel .”— Evening 
Post, N. Y. 


Benedict’s John Worthington’s Name. 

John Worthington’s Name. A Novel. By Frank Lee Benedict, Author of “ My Daugh- 
ter Elinor, Miss Van Kortland,” “Miss Dorothy’s Charge,” &c. 8vo, Paper, oo ; 
Cloth, $i 50. ( Nearly Ready.) 


Sara Coleridge’s Memoir and Letters, 

Memoir and Letters of Sara Coleridge. Edited by her Daughter. With Two Portraits on 
Steel. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 50. 


This is a very choice contribution to the literature 
of its class ; not surpassed in literary interest or intel- 
lectual power by any female correspondence that we 
possess. It is, moreover, a valuable addition to the 
literature which has gathered round the names of the 
Lake poets. We are again admitted within the charmed 
circle of which Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge 
are the presiding deities — British Quarterly Review. 

This charming volume forms an acceptable record and 
presents an adequate image of a mind of singular beauty 
and no inconsiderable power. — Examiner, London. 


This charming work. * * * We can hardly conceive 
an intelligent reader for whom the work will not 
have a charm, as telling genuinely and naturally the 
life, the daily thoughts, and hopes, and occupations 
of a noble woman of a high order of mind, and as mir- 
roring a pure heart. Her letter-writing is thoroughly 
unaffected; there is never straining for effect.— Athe- 
naeum, London. 

* * * The records of the life of a singularly gifted, 
intellectual, and accomplished woman— one whose 
memory is a benefaction to the race.— N. Y. Times. 


Colonel Dacre. 


Colonel Dacre. A Novel. By the Author of “Caste,” &c. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 


There is much that is attractive both in Colonel 
Dacre and the simple-hearted girl whom he honors 
with his love. — Athenceum, London. 


Colonel Dacre is a gentleman throughout, which 
character is somewhat rare in modern novels.— Pall 
Mall Gazette. 


6 


Harper 6 ° Brothers ’ List of New Books . 


Among our Sailors. 

By J. Grey Jewell, M.D., late United States Consul, Singapore. With an Appendix con- 
taining Extracts from the Laws and Consular Regulations Governing the United States 


Merchant Service. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Mr. Jewell was for some years United States Consul 
at Singapore, and in that station he had an opportu- 
nity to note the abuses of the American merchant ma- 
rine. His book is mainly to call attention to the in- 
justice with which officers and men are treated, in the 
hope that legislation and philanthropic effort will cor- 
rect the abuses of which he complains. As a whole, it 
is an excellent work, and will unquestionably do good 
in the way intended. — World . , N. Y. 

An exceedingly intelligent, instructive, and enter- 
taining work. Every page in the volume is freighted 
with telling revelations of the sea. No space is wasted 
with idle rhetoric. Similar narratives have been pub- 
lished in fragmentary style in the current news of the 
day for many years, but no other effort within our rec- 
ollection has been made to bring the facts together in 
a form calculated to constitute a thrilling and power- 
ful appeal, such as we have before us now. “Among 
our Sailors” is a deserving book, and it will be more 
talked about among the classes to which it addresses 
itself than any work that has reached them in many 
years . — Brooklyn Eagle. 

It is very seldom that we meet with a book which 
is more useful, and withal more interesting, than this. 
The condition of our sailors, the hardships, often 


amounting to cruelties and oppressions, which they 
undergo, the relations subsisting between ordinary 
seamen and a ship’s officers, form an important chap- 
ter in the life of one of the most valuable sections of 
the people. The peculiar circumstances that surround 
the life of a sailor, his ignorance of the means of ob- 
taining redress, and the short time that he usually re- 
mains on shore, deprive him of the opportunity, afford- 
ed to most other persons, of submitting his grievances 
openly to the world. Dr. Jewell has, therefore, done 
a good work in taking up a cause which, for these and 
other reasons, has too long been left unnoticed. It is 
a work which, so far as we are aware, has never before 
been attempted in this country; but it has fallen, at 
last, into efficient hands, and the result is a book that 
should be read by every one who has the interests of 
the American mercantile marine at heart. A long 
practical experience has given Dr. Jewell ample qual- 
ification for the duty he has undertaken ; and while, 
by a clear explanation of the laws, some of which he 
has either in whole or in part added, he has furnished 
a valuable manual for the sea-faring community, he 
has also, by the vivid narrative of facts and the accu- 
mulation of much minute detail, supplied a most in- 
teresting book to the general reader. — A. Y. Times. 


“Ship Ahoy!” 

A Yarn in Thirty-six Cable Lengths. Illustrated by Wallis Mackay and Frederick 


Waddy. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. 

“This capital sea-story grew out of the popular agi- 
tation aroused in England by Mr. Plimsoll’s startling 
expose of the abuse of sending unseaworthy and over- 
loaded ships to sea, so heavily insured that their loss 
would be profitable to the owners and shippers. The 
adventures which make up the narrative of ‘ Ship 
Ahoy !’ have their parallels in actual experience, but 
with them is interwoven a roman-tic love-story which 
awakens the reader’s sympathy and maintains his in- 
terest to the close. ‘ Ship Ahoy !’ forms an excellent 
pendant to Dr. Jewell’s work, ‘Among our Sailors,’ 
recently published, in which public attention is called 
to many flagrant abuses to which American sailors are 
subjected.” 


The book is capitally written, and exceedingly in- 
teresting in plot. It is told with a certain quaintness 
that is very attractive, and in its more serious phases 
is earnest and manly in tone. It is a hearty remon- 
strance against overloading and sending unseaworthy 
vessels from port. The illustrations are unique in 
their way, especially the initial letters at the head of 
the chapters, which serve as mottoes for what is to 
come. The spirit and the freshness of the narrative 
will highly recommend it to the reader .— Saturday 
Evening Gazette, Boston. 

The characterization is pointed and the style vigor- 
ous.— Evening Mail, N. Y. 


Trollope’s Phineas Redux. 

Phineas Redux. A Novel. By Anthony Trollope, Author of “The Warden,” “Bar- 
chester Towers,” “Phineas Finn,” “ Orley Farm,” “The Small House at Allington,” &c. 
Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, $1 25 ; Cloth, $1 75. 


In many respects we consider it one of the best of 
Trollope’s novels, and there are scenes in it which rise 
altogether above his ordinary level of narrative and 
characterization. The story owes much of its raciness 
to its union of love with politics. The hero is a mem- 
ber of Parliament; and, under thinly disguised names, 
Trollope brings Gladstone, Disraeli, Lowe, Bright, and 
numerous other political celebrities or utilities into 
his narrative. As a political novel, we think that 
“Phineas Redux” excels, in truthfulness and natural- 


ness, any of Disraeli’s ventures in the same field of 
fiction.— Rostov Daily Globe. 

An exceedingly clever work. — Evening Traveller , 
Boston. 

“ Phineas Redux,” is a political novel of the present 
time. Living leaders are brought into its action. No 
one can help seeing that Mr. Danberry is Disraeli, and 
that Mr. Gresham is Gladstone. The battle of party, 
as fought in Parliament, is vividly described.— Phila- 
delphia Press. 


A Fast Life on the Modern Highway. 

A Fast Life on the Modern Highway ; being a Glance into the Railroad World from a 
New Point of View. By Joseph Taylor. Illustrated. i2mo, Cloth. (In Press.) 

Through Fire and Water. 

Through Fire and Water. A Tale of City Life. By Frederick Talbot. Illustrated 
8vo, Paper, 25 cents. 


Harper 6 - Brothers ’ List of New Boohs . 


7 


Smiles’s Huguenots after the Revocation. 

ofthX^^ 

expatriations, and to the events which succeeded the 
lie vocation of the Edict of Nantes. These events were 
of the most thrilling character. The heroism of this 
persecuted people of God has but few parallels in the 
history of the world, and the strong arm of relentless 
persecution never tell with more merciless severity 
upon the heads of its victims. The details of these 
persecutions are painful in their tragic character, but 
they illustrate the sublime faith of a people whose 
record constitutes one of the grandest pages in the 

history of the world. It is a book of deep interest. 

Albany Evening Journal. 


Nobody can read it without interest, without loving 
and admiring those whose struggles and hardships 
the author paints so well, or without feeling a wish to 
resemble them. The general public will derive from 
it clear, sound, and agreeable instruction.— Athenaeum. 

Ihe work which preceded this, from the pen of the 
same author, related chiefly to the causes which led 
to the large migrations of foreign Protestants from 
Flanders and France into England, and to describe 
their effects upon English history and English indus- 
try. This work relates more particularly to the pro- 
tracted and terrible contests which preceded these 


Miss Braddon’s Publicans and Sinners. 


Publicans and Sinners; or, Lucius Davoren. A Novel Bv Miss Bt?atw>w «#■ 

“ StrangerS and Pil S dmS ’” “ EIeanor ’ s V ^tory “ Birds of Pre*” &c . 8vo, Pap’er^ 75 cents 


A singularly well-constructed story, and is one of the 
most exciting fictions that we have had from the pen 
of its prolific author. It is ingeniously intricate in 
design, and the complicated interest is admirably sus- 
tained. The reader is cleverly thrown upon the wrong 
scent in regard to the manner in which the plot will 
unravel, and the mystery is skillfully concealed until 
the writer chooses to clear it up at her leisure. Miss 
Braddon has always been justly praised for the orig- 
inality and the dramatic intensity of her plots, and she 
has nowhere shown more subtle skill in their inven- 
tion than she has in this instance. The characters are 
remarkably well drawn ; the descriptive portions are 
vigorous and picturesque, and, in one or two in- 
stances, her personages are elaborated with rare pow- 
er and vividuess. Her style is brilliant and spirited ; 
her books show a close observation of human nature, 
and a happy faculty in describing its deeper phases • 
and her invention leads her far from the track of con- 


ventionality. Her books are held in high esteem on 
the Continent, and have been translated into almost 
every civilized tongue, while her talents have not been 
thought unworthy of analysis by some of the best 
French and German critics. She has written no book 
in which there are not evidences of unusual intellect- 
ual power. Though plot is evidently of leading im- 
portance in her eyes, she carefully elaborates her style, 
and closely studies her dramatis ■personae. In “Publi- 
cans and Sinners ” the reader will find a story that will 
at once absorb and interest him, and will win his admi- 
ration for the exceeding cleverness with which the 
plot was conceived, and the ingenuity with which it 
is developed and brought to a climax Boston Satur- 

day Evening Gazette. 

Miss Braddon’s novels have all been popular, and 
the present one seems to lack in no degree those 
strong elements which commend her writings to pub- 
lic favor . — Boston Journal. 


Plumer’s Pastoral Theology. 

Hints, and Helps in Pastoral Theology. By William S. Plumer, D.D., LL.D. i2mo 
Llotn, $ 2 oo. 1 


* * * All these subjects are treated in Dr. Plumer’s 
happiest style. There are few men now living so cap- 
able of treating such subjects as this venerable author. 
His age, his long experience in the ministry, his em- 
inent success as a preacher and pastor, and his unusual 
aptness to teach young men— all combine to qualify 
him to be the author of the best book in this depart- 
ment of sacred science. All the students who have 
been trained under his instructions love him as a fa- 
ther, and will hail the publication of this volume with 
delight. — Observer, N. Y. 


Its style is clear and lively, its information and 
8 ^*IS® s dons are eminently practical, and are real 
helps to students and pastors. It is especially rich 
in citations and illustrations from the great preachers 
of the Church in all ages, and some chapters are de- 
voted to the peculiar duties and responsibilities of 
American ministers. * * * The hook is fresh and direct 
in its method of treatment, and it is admirably adapt- 
ed to the circumstances and wants of American min- 
isters in all churches .— Lutheran Observer , Phira. 


Wilkie Collins’s Novels: Library Edition. 

Harper s Illustrated Library Edition of Wilkie Collins’s Novels. With Portrait on Steel 
by Halpin. i2mo, Cloth, $i 50 per volume. 

Armadale. Basil. Hide-and-Seek. — Man and Wife. — No Name. — Poor Miss Finch. 
—The Dead Secret.— The Moonstone.— The New Magdalen.— The Woman in White. 
After Dark.— Queen of Hearts.— Miscellaneous Stories. 

Now Ready :— The New Magdalen.— The Woman in White.— Poor Miss Finch.— 
The Dead Secret.— Man and Wife.— Basil.— Hide-and-Seek.— No Name.— The Moon- 
stone. The remaining volumes will follow shortly . 


8 


Harper 6 ° Brothers' List of New Books. 


Harper’s Household Dickens. 

Elegant and Cheap. With Original Characteristic Illustrations by American and British 
Artists. 

OLIVER TWIST. With 2S Illustrations by J. 

Mahoney. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents ; Cloth, $1 00. 

MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. With 59 Illustrations 
by J. Barnard. Svo, Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 

THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. With 54 Illus- 
trations by Thomas Worth. Svo, Paper, 75 
cents ; Cloth, $1 25. 

DAVID COPPERFIELD. With Portrait of Au- 
thor and 61 Illustrations by F. Barnard. Svo, 

Paper, $1 00; Cloth, $1 50. 

The above volumes are now ready. Others in preparation. 

Hudson’s History of Journalism. 

Journalism in the United States, from 1690 to 1872. By Frederic Hudson. Crown 8vo, 
Cloth, $5 00. 

London’s Heart. 

A Novel. By B. L. Farjeon, Author of “Grif,” “Joshua Marvel,” “ Blade-o’-Grass,” &c. 
Illustrated. Svo, Paper, $1 00. 

\ 

Reclns's Ocean. 

The Ocean, Atmosphere, and Life. Being the Second Series of a Descriptive History of 
the Life of the Globe. By PAis^e Reclus. Profusely Illustrated with 250 Maps or Fig- 
ures, and 27 Maps printed in Colors. Svo, Cloth, $6 00. (Uniform in style with Reclus' s 
Earth. 8vo, Cloth, $5 00.) 

Harper’s Hand-Book for Travellers in Europe and the East. 

Being a Guide through France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Austria, Italy, Sicily, Egypt, 
Syria, Turkey, Greece, Switzerland, Russia, Denmark, Sweden, Spain, and Great Britain 
and Ireland. By W. Pembroke Fetridge. Twelfth Year. With nearly 100 Maps and 
Plans of Cities. Large i2mo, Half Leather. Pocket-Book form, $5 00. 

Cushing’s Treaty of Washington. 

The Treaty of Washington : Its Negotiation, Execution, and the Discussions Relating 
Thereto. By Caleb Cushing. Crown Svo, Cloth, $ 2 00. 

The New Magdalen. 

A Novel. By Wilkie Collins, Author of “ The Woman in White,” “ Armadale,” “ Moon- 
stone,” “ Man and Wife,” &c., &c. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 

Hazard’s Santo Domingo. 

Santo Domingo, Past and Present; with a Glance at Hayti. By Samuel Hazard. Maps 
and Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $3 50. 

Miss Beecher’s Housekeeper and Healthkeeper. 

Miss Beecher’s Housekeeper and Healthkeeper : Containing Five Hundred Recipes for 
Economical and Healthful Cooking ; also, many Directions for securing Health and Happi- 
ness. Approved by Physicians of all Classes. Illustrations. i2mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

Forney’s Anecdotes of Public Men. 

Anecdotes of Pub^ NJjn.KJfBgJoHN Forney. i2mo, Cloth, $2 00. 

Old Kensington. 

A Novel. By Miss Thackeray, Author of “ The Village on the Cliff,” &c. Illustrated. 
8vo, Paper, |i 00; Cloth, $1 50. 


DOMBEY AND SON. With 52 Illustrations by 
W . L. Sheppard. Svo, Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. With 52 Illustrations 
by C. S. Reinhart. Svo, Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, 
$1 50. 

BLEAK HOUSE. With 61 Illustrations by F. Bar- 
nard. 8vo, Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 

PICKWICK PAPERS. With 52 Illustrations by 
Thomas Nast. Svo, Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 

LITTLE DORRIT. With 5S Illustrations by J. 
Mahoney. Svo, Paper, $1 00 ; Cloth, $1 50. 











o > 






^ , 1 • <$■ 

. V c 





* 




° $ v * 

* <r A -. 




o 



® \ V** 

* # % . 

A <\ * 

<A c 0 " 0 * 

• cv\^ ** ^ 

<*_ A „' <5 *'™ "'*■'' ^ 




o, '• . » * 


L / 0 


o v 


o 5 ^ o J,0 ^ * A Ok 

r ^ ° 0 0 ° + S 



c 




A 




«>«* 

* ^ A. 



/ +4 

v ** • °'* \ 


'O. >* A 

^ c 0 " c * 



o 


< N s. 

^ 4^ O 


ip- 7 * 


> » ^//////^ v 4X* y ^* 

A * < ^~r S / ! r^fu ^ K » 

0 * ®' A V s s 0 0 '- o 

^ A A* A 

Vfv 





ol 


0 



1 4 o. 

. ^ '-rss/HU* > V ^ 

^ *^«i* A 

*. "’• ,A 

A \> «, 5 V / <3 




o M 0 


♦ o 





< 


* 


vJ 

» 


A! 





A 


0 ' * y • °* 


* A A. 

* ^ ** 




4 . C> 

. - ^ry, //nleX ^ ^ 

A *•■’•’ A 

V v A * * ' 

°.v AA • 

° a ^ * 

* „v V, - 

" * 

r 0 ^ a^' c 0 * 0 * '<s> 



O o A 


c 0 ^ A 

^ j&c W! /// ^~? • <n . 

• ^ 1 

v I 

^ - .- MVVV s * ^ * 

‘»"°’ A° +A 

'’ % <& ^ 

; ^ / : 

/ & % * 

- G. ^ 


A 



\ 0 v% 

• ^ • 



’ * ”- V \,' . S » 


'v ^ 

♦ tv 

v \ s c . • 

°. ^ “ 

* cfi ^ O 

* <P O 

.A ^ 

.0 o 'o <* * ^ A 

r / ,wA ■ °o a* ■•■• 

^0< :gmtd- V* 




0 - . ^° 

A o 



4 « 




0 


5 °^ 


« o 



A \> - * • • 


O 





o 'o'.;* Al 



• c _«^nC r° t* 


4 °x- *. 

V o -. 

o »...• 0 

•* V 
. V^> 

/ ^ % 







< 



' < O 

3 <1 r o o> 

* - ’ % A - o ;*<. 0 

\ V c o o ^ 

' t o 

o ^ c. <- 





ft ft 


O « A 


A 



A * s <11 


0 N G . 



-V 






o 

C sP 2 

i • * • ^0 O "° * a * A 

^ ,0 i- 1 "* ^O A^ <> N « 

^ c Sa e/tfT^' o A *° 

• '*o$ ° 


+ArS 


0 


4 o 
I? As 


* 




VP -r^r V 

<" *£> A 

• ^ 0 

* 4 CX 

> »■ '-*'/// ms*/ "* -a, y •<<» 

^ ow-f,* A o 

^ "’ A < 

. > v %*•• - 

-. ^ A / 

* vA 

o A ^ * 

* A ^ oi/isaur* 

A f V • A 

<G ^ 'o • * ** 

<-. ^ ,<y <* 1,0 + <d y 

". ^o« .'/IP^’ ■>*-<* 

■ *t°* 




O > ! 



p A 




0 

>p 









k 0 ' * y 0 


<*■ <-*Ss'//l\l ^7 > 

3 + ^ 

^ °' 1# .V 

* V * 0 ' V V N S 5 * * 

,.N\W/^o 'A A ^ 

*. w . 

o A vP 2 

. % <,v * 

'•••* y \ 'oa:-' a' vw*v 

/ ^ c 0 : ° * ^ “ q 

•r ’y. * af>Jrr7n^^ O .1 <> * r^Csc\ <* *>> 


0 lO V\ 

_ J> ^MAXVsS* *> ^ v\ 

o '*r i v>' O o •%. 

<y ^\. 

<* *p v 

° ^ c* « 

vP V * 


4 



•y' . 

«• 4 

<A Q* 




y 0 \> 




* <^x//mj& n -CL 

* tv" ^ * 

* - ’ <A O g» 

<£> a / n 0 O * „ 0 

\v ^ » n o 

V t *LVl' A O 

0 ^ 4 A * 

: W • 

8 v> ^ *« 

^ 4LT ^ °»‘ V ^^ VJ '/ ^ 

* 6 A '° • ‘ ' <v 

o A c ‘ ^ 

-: 'W :■ 

imxxx 0 \0 V\ 

S-. f V »”• -^ 

’ A > \> o 

• ^ • 

sP «) _; 7 - 0 

2 


„ «• ' * ^ O 





$ V 





* V A ». 



V.A •' 

vP 9 <6 


0 r (4 * * o. 


A ^ 


'.. s ’ y 'o 'o'.;* a 

. tp c 0^ t • 1 a ^o / -o « 6 

-> c * jp/rTfer ° 


> y<\ tf» 



N ^ 

* r 1 *" —%* A 

A • < ■■ * A 

%> v »* 

" 8 ^4. 

*. W ” 

*“ / A °o 

S 'A A ■' 

A ,.^ 1 'o i 
0 < ■»*_ . -«► 




o * 

°4. '**■»’ A 0 ' 'V - 

O O ^ y o o ^ 

A As -A ^ «> "" 

* >v A l> ^ ^ ^ ^ ' C 

• -^¥a» a a * 

o A ^ * 

^ . I 


r 

oA 


• o 


0*1 


A 




4 O ' 









O 'O . A * 


o y 



O o 


°* A 


0 



A 


\0 > *• * 4 o * 

v « <^yyy/l)s3p v <L >» 

“vp ^ a * 0 - ^ v" s s °.i ' ^ ^o <& 

% A .’Ste \A ^ ^ 8> 


i°v 


^S . * v 

0 -OFf: i 4 fis <s 



“ cS ^ . 

*- 4 ? ^ O 

K • 



P V " ®- 




